Group Therapy
by diamondwine
Summary: Post CA: TWS, Bucky becomes intrigued by an ex-assassin in the veteran support group therapy run by Sam Wilson.
1. Chapter 1

She still hasn't said anything and it's my third week into these sessions Steve has convinced me to go to. All I know is her amber eyes and long curly brown hair, which reminds me of my coffee when I stare down into it and away from her, tilting my hat down further to try not to look like such a creep.

"James, you mind taking off that hat? It just feels like you're not really a part of this talk," Sam asks kindly. We don't usually sit in circles like this, but it's a Friday night, and someone's plastic chair creaks against the floor of the gymnasium as they get up to go use the bathroom.

"Oh—sorry," I mumble, pulling it off and brushing my hair back. I hope I don't look too scraggly. Steve had almost convinced me to get a haircut, but I hadn't wanted anything sharp near my face. I was still dealing with my demons inside, demons I couldn't fully discuss in front of all of these good people. These people are the real heroes. They didn't do anything wrong, not like me. They didn't murder in the name of Nazis, betray their own country, try to kill their best friend. I shake my head a moment, having clenched my fists so hard that I managed to smash the Styrofoam cup of Joe. I hadn't noticed the fluid burning my leg through my jeans.

"Napkins," someone says, and a hand flies at my feet to start cleaning up the mess.

"I'm sorry," I say blankly. I really just want to get up and leave, but these sessions are like an escape from my own torturous thoughts. I can't help but stay seated, eagerly waiting to hear amber eyes. She's one of only two women in this support group. I won't lie, the first session I sat through, I was surprised to see any women here. I couldn't stop staring as the older one talked about her Iraq tour. Back in my day, I was certain women were the nurses and the men fought the wars. Sam eyes me nervously a moment and I strut towards the table to grab some paper towels and help clean up my mess after throwing the cup away.

"Davine, we still haven't heard from you. Would you like to share anything?" Sam asks gently, "Anything at all—you could even tell everybody how your week went." So _that's_ her name. She returns his smile shortly before tucking some hair behind one of her ears. I notice it then, the scar down her cheek. It starts near her temple and nearly meets her jaw. It doesn't rob her of beauty as I take my seat again and steal a long glance at her. She takes a deep breath.

"I…went to the movies on Wednesday. I didn't bring anybody, but…it was nice. I saw The Giver. I remember reading that book as a kid…movie didn't do it justice."

Her voice has a clear, fairy ring to it, like Dizzi Jig on a dulcimer, a pleasantly nauseating rhythm, which one would not have expected from the obvious strength in her arms as she leans forth with an elbow on her knee.

"I mean, when Jonas learns what violence is…"

She seems lost in her own thoughts as she continues, staring into space. I know there must be a story to that scar on her face, but she won't tell it tonight. In truth, I haven't been to each and _every _one of these veteran support group sessions. Sometimes I'd just go for a walk when Steve thinks I'm here sharing in the pain of these good people. All I've shared is the back story Sam helped me fabricate: I was in Iraq when I lost my arm in a shoot-out trying to protect civilians, the wounds got infected and the limb had to be amputated, but I happened upon some experimental division of the military which provided me with my prosthetic arm (which despite the back story, I usually keep hidden under long sleeves in the end of August heat), I had a wife who passed away from lymphoma, and I was currently living with a military friend I'd known since childhood. The bit about the wife is simply a parallel of my own (near) death. No one has to know the truth.

Davine shakes her head and doesn't finish her sentence. Everyone is quiet.

"I'm sorry," she says, sitting up straight and closing her eyes.

"No. That was good. That was great. No pressure here. No judgment. We're all sharing here. I'm just glad you finally spoke. Progress takes time," Sam reassures. Davine glances at him and nods with a quick smile. She then covers her mouth with a hand and closes her eyes tight for a minute. Someone else begins to talk and I can't help eying that scar. As far as I know, I'm no expert on women, but I have seen enough present-day soaps on television to know that this is something they do when they're about to cry. But no tears leave Davine's eyes. She removes the hand from her mouth, crosses her arms, and frosts her expression over like ice. Unaffected. I know this game. She's hardened, like a rock. War will do that to you.

I keep casually stealing glances every now and then. When the session is over, Davine stands up to leave, pulling her sweater right off the back of her seat without a second glance back at anyone. I start towards the door—but not too fast. I don't want it to look like I might try to talk to her. I'm convinced that everyone is wary of the quiet man with the metal hand. Sam places a hand on my shoulder, catching me by surprise for a moment.

"Man, you okay?" he asks kind of quietly.

"Sure. I didn't really feel like talking tonight. I'm just gonna head back to Steve's."

"You sure?" Wilson presses. I give his arm a friendly pat before starting towards the door. When I step out of the community centre, the night is young and quiet. I glance down the street to the left, and then to the right, where I catch a glimpse of someone walking away. I know it's Davine, despite the hood over her head. I know because of the curls of hair that drift after her like a set of almond wings. I know I probably shouldn't, but I start to follow her. I pause around a corner as she readies to cross the street. It becomes clear to me that she doesn't hear a thing going on around her; I watch one of her hands slip out of the sweater's pocket to flip through whatever it is she's listening to on her iPhone. I pull my cap on lower and continue on. She walks for a good twenty minutes without noticing me. She stops at a brick building, the one directly across from Steve's apartment complex. I start to wonder how I haven't noticed that Davine lives right next door. Usually I go to a bar after group therapy at the community centre. Davine always leaves before we finish, or so fast that I always get caught up talking to Sam before I have a chance to approach her.

I should stop following now. She'll no doubt see me. But just as I'm about to turn and back off, the gated door swings open and a woman excuses herself as she nearly nails Davine straight in the face. She starts into the building. The woman exiting holds the door for me. I grab it and nod. She hurriedly makes her way down the street and I simply stand there holding the door open for a bit, wondering what the hell I'm doing, really. I let the door close as the sound of an elevator dinging meets my ears. _I'm being a stalker. That's creepy, James!_ I close my eyes for a moment and start around the corner. I make it to the other side of the street before walking into Steve's apartment complex, where someone is exiting. I don't know what I'm doing. Steve won't be home yet. I already know he's on a mission with Natasha. I'd practically begged him to let me come along one night, but he still thinks I need time to "figure myself out," whatever that means.

I know my name, I know that I've done some terrible things, I'm nearly a hundred years old, and that Steve and I used to be the best of friends. The latter had been difficult for me to believe at first. How could a monster like _me_ have ever had friends? But I knew him…something felt so familiar when he started talking to me, when he found me, when he brought me into his home and let me stay. I sigh and take my hat off. Steve gave me this hat. He bought it at a mall when he took me to get some normal clothes. I have no idea who the Yankees are, but at least the cap keeps the sun out of my eyes during the day. Steve had looked so shocked when I asked him what Yankees meant. I shake my head. I go to the roof of the building, propping the door open with a brick that had been conveniently lying nearby.

I come up here to think sometimes. I can hear much less of the hustle and bustle of the street below. I sigh and inhale the fresh air. I scan the city night for a minute before focusing in on some of the lights coming out from apartments in the complex next door. I don't usually bother to look. Curtains are usually closed. But sometimes I'll see this woman feeding her toddler at a highchair, or a man staring out his window with a beer, a couple having an argument that starts to get physical, and it's just nice to forget for a while who I am and what I've done, and focus on someone else's life. And then I see her. I see Davine pulling back the curtain of a window. She stands there a moment, looking down. I clutch the ledge of the roof and get on my knees, ducking low for a moment. It isn't like I haven't followed people before, people I had to kill…I try not to think about it, tell myself to stop. When I rise slowly, I can still see her, but this time she's starting away from the window. I stare into the building with my perfect vision. She sits on a couch and stares in front of her, at something, probably a TV. She's wearing shorts and as she pulls her legs up and crosses them, I feel a strange excitement somewhere within.

I know I shouldn't be watching. I don't even know her. She doesn't know I can see her. But I can't stop. After a moment, she covers her eyes with both hands and they tremble slightly. She's crying. I can tell. The excitement wears off and I start to feel…not good. Why did I follow her home? I'd wanted to talk to her, I guess. I don't know why, but she intrigues me. So far as I know, I've never seen a woman look so strong and broken at the same time, and I start to realize that perhaps it's like looking into a mirror when I look at her. I watch only a moment longer before Davine disappears from the couch, retreating into her apartment where I can no longer see her. I lose interest in the fresh air, or at least that's what I tell myself. I start towards the door. By the time I make it down to Steve's apartment, I feel guilty and creepy for having done what I just did.

I mean, it wasn't like I wanted to hurt her. That's not why I followed her. I'm lost in thought when I turn the handle of Steve's front door. I step into the kitchen in time to find Natasha jumping away from Steve. She nearly drops the icepack in her hand as the two of them turn to look at me. I had closed the door so slowly that they hadn't heard me come in.

"Bucky," Steve says. His face looks a little bruised. Natasha looks away and maneuvers to the refrigerator to put the icepack back. Something tells me I've just interrupted something.

"You're back early," I explain, leaning in the doorway a moment.

"Yeah, it was a quick little mission. Didn't take long," Steve explains, almost nervously, scratching the back of his head. I hoped he didn't think I was an idiot. If he wanted to be alone with Natasha, all he had to do was tell me to scram for the night.

"How was the session?" Steve asks. I shrug.

"I'll see you next time," Natasha says, starting past him, patting his arm gently.

"Bucky," she nods casually.

"Sure," I mutter.

She's in a pair of jeans that are so tight, I wonder how Steve finds the power not to glance over at her suave stride on her way out of the apartment, heels clicking with tantalizing seduction. Steve grins at me and turns to wash something in the sink. I know he's probably just blushing and doesn't want me to see his face.

"Sam said you haven't been to more than five sessions," he begins. The therapy group meets three days a week.

"What, are you keeping tabs on me now? Last time I checked, I was a grown man."

"Bucky…I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know, I know. I'm fine, Steve. I just haven't been feeling up to going that frequently. Forgive me if I feel like a criminal in front of all of those good men and women."

Steve sighs and dries his hands with the dish towel. He faces me.

"Anyway, I'm tired. I'm just gonna go to bed early."

"You sure you're okay? You're not a criminal, Buck."

I nod and make my way to the bathroom to shower. For some reason, I can't get that scar on Davine's face out of my mind. I'm tired of sitting around on my ass at Steve's and wandering around the city every week. I'm going to find a way to talk to her.


	2. Chapter 2

When I lie my head down to sleep, I don't really want to _fall_ asleep, despite the fact that I'm thoroughly tired. I know I'll have a bad dream, a flashback, nightmare about pulling triggers, blood on my hands, it never ends. I awake in a cold sweat. I rarely scream now when I have the flashbacks. Steve had come running to my room almost every night for two weeks straight before the therapist I'm seeing on Tuesdays and Thursdays prescribed me something to calm me down. I stand up and pull the sheets off my bed. They're wet, and I hate the smell of my own sweat. I'd forgotten to turn the fan on before going to bed.

"Shit."

I know Steve is asleep in his room. I sigh and push the hair out of my face, carrying my sheets and one of the blankets that got sweated on quietly out of the apartment, starting downstairs in my boxers to the basement where the laundry machines are. I don't really care if anyone sees me like this. It's three in the morning. Who could possibly be up doing laundry? After stuffing the items into the machine, adding some detergent (yes, Steve taught me how to do laundry), and starting it, I make my way back upstairs. I pause at the door, twirl the key on my finger. And then I take the elevator up to the top floor. I step off and make my way around the corner to the stairwell that takes you to the very top floor. The wind on the roof makes me colder as a bead of sweat drips down my chest. I know I shouldn't be doing this, but I want something to take my mind off the screams of a child that are still ringing in my ears. For a moment, my hands tremble and I think I might throw up. I don't know how I was capable of such evil.

As I scan the apartment complex next door, I only hope to catch a glimpse of Davine. The window to her apartment is open, but the lights are off. I can't tell for a moment whether she's still on the couch, until a white flash illuminates her shape lying across the sofa. I figure the television is still on, but I can only make her out every so often. Her long brown hair dips over the edge of the couch. I wonder for a moment whether it's soft to the touch…I should go put my clothes in the dryer.

It's a Saturday and Steve has made breakfast. I know so because the smell of bacon and eggs fills the apartment. I can't believe I was able to fall back asleep after that particular flashback…There was a reason I had to do it. They hurt me. It wasn't my fault. It _wasn't _my fault. I didn't know what I was doing. I sit up in bed, the fresh sheet I had spread there still fragrant from the one too many dryer sheets I had put in the machine in my distracted state. I pull off my boxers and sigh, throwing them into the hamper before staring in the full-length mirror at myself. I can't remember the last time I woke up with an erection quite like this. I stare down at myself with some concern. Is it because of the dreams or because of Davine? I know deep down that the latter is the cause, I'm still just beating myself up for all of my sins.

It's hard to believe I'm in my nineties. My mind is that age, but my body, stronger than it was when I became a soldier in the first place. I press a hand to the abs I still have without having to put much work in, close my eyes. I bite down hard on my bottom lip as my flesh hand grips the need I can't get rid of unless I do something about it. I'm careful to be quiet when I moan, shifting towards the door to make sure it's locked. I sit down and deal with myself quickly, aggressively. I shouldn't be doing this while Steve's around. Even though he can't hear me, it just feels awkward. In a minute's time, I've made a mess of my hands. I stand up hastily and stumble for the tissue box on the dresser, not wanting to make yet another mess of the sheets I just washed. I should have grabbed the tissues before starting. My chest heaves as I clean myself off but I really need a shower, anyway. I close my eyes and swallow hard. I could just barely see her lying on that couch. I wonder whether she has nightmares, too, and if they're as heartbreaking as mine.

I know I won't see Davine today. The group therapy takes place on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But the thought of being able to see her if I _want to_ lights me up a bit, so that I feel less horrible for the moment as I wash my hair in the shower, wash my body. I know from the things Steve's told me that I'm not a virgin. According to Steve, I'd been a real ladies' man in our day. He told me that I always got the girls, and sometimes, I even took them home while he went to go get himself beat up in alley ways, picking fights with guys five times his size. The thought makes me smile as the suds rinse down my back under the showerhead. Not the thought of Steve getting beaten, but at the thought of having had it easy with women. And now I don't even know how to talk to one. I want to talk to Davine. I want to hear her story, know what war did to her. I don't know how to approach her. I decide I should shave. I don't want to look extra creepy for the next therapy session.

When I walk out of my room in a fresh pair of shorts and a t-shirt, Steve is sitting at the counter, watching TV with a plate full of food.

"Morning, Buck. Help yourself. I made plenty."

"Plans for the day?" I ask, pouring myself a tall glass of water.

"I'm, uh, actually meeting up with Natasha for something in a bit. I was thinking we should try to do something nice soon. Take a trip to New York—just you and me—catch a baseball game. Like…like we used to." My heart still sinks a little bit when Steve says things like this, things I _can't_ or have yet to remember.

"We used to love it, Buck," he says encouragingly.

"Yeah, Steve…sounds like a plan. Just let me know when you want to go."

He knows that I don't have plans. I don't do anything right now, except all this therapy. I've gotten much better in the past few weeks than I was when Steve found me. I sit opposite Steve after throwing some toast in the toaster and rationing out some meat onto a plate.

"You sure you're okay, man? You seemed a bit…quiet yesterday, when Nat was here."

"How many times do I have to tell you? You don't have to worry about me. I'm handling it. I'm handling…everything." Steve eyes me for a moment. I look up from my plate to grin at him.

"I don't want to push you, Bucky. I just want to help you remember stuff."

"…I know," I nod, "And I _am_ remembering some things. I am."

He doesn't say another word about it and we watch the news in silence, before he stands up to put his plate in the sink. He's already dressed as he heads out of the kitchen.

"Hey. Tell Natasha I said hello."

"Will do," Steve calls back to me brightly. I know he likes her—he doesn't have to tell me. I see it in his face when he talks about her. I shove my empty plate against the floor in frustration, clutching my head and panting. There are things I don't want to tell Steve. I don't want to tell him that I feel lonely, that I want what he's got with Natasha. He doesn't talk about her much, and I haven't seen them kiss or hold hands, but I _know_. I know when two people are crazy for each other. I might still be a little bit crazy myself, but I know.

I journey up to the roof again after sweeping up the broken porcelain from Steve's kitchen floor. Hopefully, I hurry towards the ledge of the roof, and I don't see Davine sitting there on the couch this time. Her window is still open so that I can see _in_, but she's either not home or not in the room where I could see her like before. I sigh with some disappointment and pace a moment. Sometimes I think I'll explode feeling the way I do.

My therapist recommended more fresh air. I'm not supposed to spend all of my time cooped up indoors. As I make my way down the street, planning a new route, I try to focus on my surroundings, the things I see. I pause on a street corner and wait for the light. As I'm standing there, I spot a unisex barber shop. I can see through its glass windows to the people inside having their hair cut and colored. I pull a hand through my hair. It's gotten to be a bit past my shoulders now. I hate having to comb it as much as I do. After a moment there debating it, I miss the walk signal when I spot someone blow drying hair at one of the high chairs. The long brown hair makes me only curious to see whether it's Davine.

I wait impatiently for a few cars to pass, jabbing the walk button again vigorously, before looking both ways and running across the street. I walk slowly past the window, and try not to look like I'm legitimately staring in. From the profile face, I'm almost certain it's Davine. I make my way into the shop. A bell tolls above the door and a receptionist grins over at me. I approach her and stare at the desk a moment.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asks.

"Uh…how much for a haircut?"

A shade of brown waves falls against my cheek, and I catch the poofy-haired lady blushing as she gazes up at me. I can't help but smile. I might not have been around women much for a long time, but I knew when I gave one goose bumps. I press both hands on the desk top, leaning in a little bit and making direct eye contact with the lady. She stutters a moment before telling me that today is a special and it'll cost me twenty-five dollars to get a cut—twenty if I sign up to be a regular customer and get on the mailing list.

"No trouble, sweetheart," I breathe as she pushes a pen and blue sheet of paper towards me. I sign some crap, give my home phone number, and even the Gmail email address Steve had set up for me. Computers were new to me, but I'd been learning to use them while Steve was away on his missions and I wasn't at therapy. I wink like a sly bastard before sliding the sheet of paper back to the lady. The receptionist laughs shyly, the dimples in her cocoa cheeks exaggerating the harder she smiles.

"Bucky," she says.

"Huh?" I glance down at the receptionist from scanning the shop in surprise.

"No, nothing. That's just an interesting name. I've never heard it before."

I laugh as she smiles shyly.

"I get that a lot," I add casually.

She enters my phone number and information into the computer in front of her before handing me something else to sign. It was one of those electronic touch things that you use a fake pen for.

"And if you'll just sign here and pay in cash or credit, we'll send you your member's card in the mail."

"Yeah, sure."

I spell my name and press the okay button after swiping one of the credit cards Steve had given to me. Steve had showed me how to use these digital gadgets when I went with him to the store during the week. Usually it was Natasha or his neighbor who picked up the groceries for us, but I had been under somebody else's control for so long that I preferred doing things by myself. I scan the shop again, hoping it is in fact Davine I just got this stupid barber shop membership over. All I want to do is see whether or not it's her, and I know I should cut my hair because it's driving me crazy with the upkeep. This would give me an excuse to start talking to her, in a setting where I won't just look like that creepy guy from group therapy. The receptionist is staring at my arm as she tells me to have a seat, but to my surprise and slight relief, the expression on her face isn't one of disgust or apprehension, so much as it is curiosity.

"Davine will be right with you—she's just finishing up her last client."

My heart jumps. So it _is_ her.

"Okay," I say, clapping my hands together once and backing up towards a set-up of seats around a coffee table filled with magazines.

"Thank you very much."

She's still staring over at me as I check the time on my watch. I only wait five minutes before a finished customer walks up to the receptionist to pay. Davine walks towards me. She smiles, as if she's really happy to see me. I think about the way she cried on the couch last night while I was watching her, and I know without knowing her that this smile is fake. She's doing it for work. She appears not to recognize me when I stand up to shake her hand. Perhaps she hadn't looked at me during therapy. The few times that I saw her eyes weren't glued to her hands, she wasn't looking my way.

"I'm Davine. I'll be styling you today, sir. What's your name?" she asks. For a moment I forget how to say hello. I haven't been this close to her before. _Fuck_. She's beautiful, a head and a half or so shorter than me, breasts that I can tell without seeing her naked would fill the palms of my hands.

"I'm Bucky."

"That's an interesting name," she says, tilting her head to the side, amber gaze fixed up into my eyes. Her voice is sweet and cute and I can't help beginning to feel the same sort of excitement I had felt while watching her from the rooftop. I frown slightly. The fact that she'd been crying all alone made me feel…_feel sad_.

"It's actually James, but that's what my friends call me. You can call me whatever you want, Davine." I shiver inside, hearing my voice say her name out loud for the first time. I'm flirting shamelessly. There's an almost tangible fearlessness about her as she stares me right in the eyes. I know that look. I know without knowing her that she's killed men. She's almost as dangerous as I am. I have to tear my eyes away for a moment. I felt myself beginning to get inappropriately excited. _Control yourself._

"But you can call me whatever you want," I add.

I don't know why the fact that she seems so hardened makes me…hard. She's probably done terrible things, but I feel all the more curious about her as she grins and cocks an eyebrow, turning on her heel.

"Well, follow me, Bucky."

My voice rolling from between those succulent lips…

"What would you like to do today?"

"Just a cut. Maybe two or three inches. Nothing wild," I admit.

She gestures to a seat and once I sit down, she fastens a large plastic covering over me. I feel her fingertips at the nape of my neck while she buttons the thing. All I want to do is moan and lean back into her warm hands, but I settle for closing my eyes a moment.

"You have beautiful hair, though, let me tell you. Most guys that walk in here with this length haven't been taking very good care of it. That's why they come in to do the chop." I laugh. She has such a gentle touch when she tousles my hair. I gaze back at her in the mirror. She's so close to me that I can feel the warmth emanating from her body. I'm thankful for being under the covering then, because I can't seem to hide my pleasure at her touch much longer.

"It's wavy. Would you like me to straighten it before I cut?"

"If it won't cost me more, then please go nuts," I respond. She locks eyes with me for just an instant in the mirror before tearing her gaze away. I want to know whether she recognizes me, but I refrain from asking. I don't intend to embarrass either of us in a public environment. She pulls her fingers through my hair and sighs, reaching for the comb next. It feels good against my scalp, the combination of her fingers and the comb. I close my eyes and soon a snipping sound meets my ears. I wait until she starts asking me whether it's really hot outside today before looking again. Her eyes are focused on my hair as I gaze in the mirror at her.

"I wouldn't say it's gotten too bad yet. It's supposed to be bad later," I admit. She sighs.

"Well, thank goodness for air conditioning. Some people don't get to work in these kinds of environments. I pity them." I laugh. Davine finishes my hair seemingly without recognizing me. I thank her and give her a tip from the wallet in my back pocket. She keeps asking me if it's too short, but I assure her it's perfect. I walk out of the shop with a smile on my face. She'd let me shake her hand. At the very least, I got to touch her. But the smile slowly fades as I imagine her crying on the sofa. I spend the rest of my day at the park, reading through a newspaper I picked up from a stand. I've been trying to get up to speed historically since I spent so much time having my memory wiped. The world is still a war torn place. That much is familiar. It's nearly six o'clock when Steve texts me and asks where I am. I jump for a moment at the vibration in my pocket. I had forgotten the phone was even there. I tell him to go ahead and eat dinner without me, if he wants. I won't be in till late.

I stopped at a café for something to eat before making my way back to Steve's. I think about going to the roof again as I turn the corner and stare up the side of Davine's building. There's a fire escape which I hadn't noticed before. I start wondering whether it's right below her window.

"Keep walking, Bucky. Just leave her alone. She didn't even recognize you today." Sometimes I talk to myself out loud. Sometimes I have to, to stop bad thoughts. I sigh and make my way into Steve's building. When I get to his floor, I open the door and take no more than four steps inside before I hear the passionate moaning of a woman. I close the door quietly behind me and step around the corner to find that Steve's bedroom door is slightly ajar. I can see a mess of disheveled covers on the bed, and then the sound of flesh vigorously making contact with flesh lets me know what Steve is up to. I decipher Natasha's raspy, sexy voice and it begins to arouse me. I hurry out of the apartment, closing the door quietly. I just want to go to _bed_, but I refuse to go back into that apartment while they're fucking so goddamn loud.

I feel frustrated like I had this morning as I make my way to the roof. I hurry to the ledge again and search for Davine's apartment. She's sitting on the couch again, in shorts, legs crossed, staring ahead. She then lets her head fall to the side on the arm of the couch and I can tell she's wiping tears from her eyes. When I make my way back downstairs an hour later, it's quiet in the apartment. I make my way for the bathroom to find Natasha standing naked in there, washing her hands when I flick on the light switch. She doesn't even gasp or scream when she sees me. She squints with what looks like slight irritation to the newfound light. I feel my eyes widen as I take in the sight of her. She had a body that…that would have made anyone hot. I apologize hastily and turn the light back off, hurrying into my room and slamming the door shut until I hear her walk away back to Steve's room. I open the door a crack. It sounds like someone's moving about. And then in the dark, I can see her tousled hair as she emerges around the corner, fully clothed. She leaves quietly, and I wonder whether Steve is still awake. She wasn't going to sleep over, be there when he wakes up? I begin to wonder about the nature of their relationship, wonder whether it's purely sexual and nothing more. I find myself hard again and curse through gritted teeth. I hurry into the bathroom to brush my teeth and deal with myself in the shower. I wonder if Davine will show up again to therapy, and I wonder whether she'll recognize me.

Monday comes, and I had never been so eager to get to therapy. I'm one of the first three people to arrive, even before Sam. Nobody says much except to greet each other until it gets closer and closer to starting time, and everybody starts showing up. For some reason, there are more veterans here today than there have been in any of the sessions I've attended thus far. I'm sitting in the back of the room, and when Davine walks in, she sits right in the spot in front of me. I take a deep breath in quietly, remembering the gentle tug of her fingers in my hair. I wonder whether she saw me when she walked into the room. Stories fade in and out of my ears as I stare at the back of her head. I follow her home again, and this time I almost get caught; she drops her wallet on the ground and I nearly make it close enough for her to spot me. I duck into an alley for a second. I should have checked the weather in the morning. It's been raining on me since I left the community centre.

Davine curses loudly, and I can hear her from around the corner before she starts running and her footsteps quicken in irritation. I catch a final glimpse of her disappearing into her building. She had been walking much faster than before. She didn't have an umbrella on her, either. I couldn't blame her for not wanting to get rained on as the thunder cracks overhead and I stop standing there like a creep to begin making my way back to my building. _Why can't I just say hello?_ I don't want her to take one look at me and think I'm stalking her…But I _am _stalking her. She's _beautiful_, and I want to talk to her. I shake my wet head as I wait for the elevator in my building. I sigh and pull the soaked hoodie off my body. When I make it up to Steve's, he isn't there, but he had left a note on the counter reminding me that there's some leftover chicken in the fridge; I should use the microwave. I bet he's over at Natasha's this time, fucking her.

It should have been _me _having sex. I start to feel more alone than I had expected to feel as I stare dripping wet into the fridge. I walk into my room and change my clothes. I figure I should actually wash the rest of the load in my hamper; I'd only done the sheets from a few nights ago when I had sweat on them. I carry my things down to the basement, and when I get down there, I'm surprised to find none other than Davine, shoving her clothes into one of the washing machines. I pause to gaze at her stupidly for a moment. I wonder why she's in this building as opposed to her own. I'd never been in the one next door, but I presumed they also had a laundry room in the basement. She then rummages around in the hamper she had there and curses, kicking the machine door closed. She opens it again and sighs, staring in at her laundry.

"You okay, ma'am?" I ask kindly. Davine's head whips over in my direction. She looks at me once before turning back to her things, and then her head whips in my direction again.

"Actually, do you think I could trouble you for some detergent? I live in the building next door and we just had a power out. I wanted to do some laundry because I've got to have a clean uniform for work tomorrow, and I forgot my detergent in my kitchen."

I grin, hoping she'll at least start to smile shyly like the receptionist at her job.

"You look familiar," she says slowly, stepping towards me. I pull the hair that's wetly plastered to my forehead back and out of the way.

"You cut my hair last week, at, uhh…"

"Hair Palace? Yeah, that's where I work."

She sort of smiles.

"Oh. You're the guy with the long hair. I'm sorry…"

"Bucky," I respond, finishing her sentence.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't recognize you. Your hair looks really different wet," Davine admits.

"'S okay. Here, have all the detergent you want." I hand her the bottle chivalrously. She's still wet herself. I can see that she hadn't bothered to put on dry clothes after hurrying into her apartment.

"Wait, I feel like I've seen you somewhere else," she says. She pauses and I wait.

"I'm part of the support group you were at earlier, and last week too. I didn't want to bring it up, while you were cutting my hair the other day. I thought maybe you were embarrassed."

She looks away from me, somewhat shyly then.

"Oh. Don't…don't be ridiculous. How can you embarrass someone you don't know? I knew you looked familiar."

She steps back over to her machine to fill the detergent receptacle.

"I'm sorry. I just get so nervous talking about my time in…in the military."

"I was in Iraq for some time," I lie easily, nodding understandingly. Oh, it must have been much worse, what I'd been through. Davine eyes me as she closes the machine door and then presses the buttons.

"Ma'am, you look _real_ cold. I hope it's not too forward of me to ask you to come up to mine for some coffee? Tea? A towel?"

She laughs, crossing her arms a second and looking at me, and then around the laundry room, which is empty save for the two of us.

"You know, that would be really nice, actually. Uhm…"

"Bucky," I nod, "I know it's strange. Everyone gets used to it," I promise.

"Okay. I'll come up for some coffee."

I had no idea what I was in for.


	3. Chapter 3

She stands behind me as I open the apartment door. I get butterflies in my stomach, just knowing she's there. I hear a sniffle as I stand to the side, propping the door open for her.

"Sounds like you're getting sick," I express casually.

"Yeah, I should dry off. That's the thing; I was washing _all_ of my towels, so…"

She saunters in and I leave the door ajar a bit. Davine wanders into the kitchen and leans against the counter, facing me.

"Hang on. Let me just grab you a clean towel."

I rush to my room and pull open the closet. Thankfully I have one fresh towel left. I pull open the drawer and grab a clean t-shirt as well. Davine is sitting at the counter, watching the game that's quietly playing on the TV by the time I get back.

"I uh, hope it's not too much, I just didn't want you to be chilly. The temperature dropped since it started pouring," I admit, handing her both the towel and the t-shirt. She smiles and I just about melt.

"You're very kind. Thanks. Is there a bathroom I cam change in really quickly, if you don't mind?"

"Oh yeah! Of course. Just around the corner, to your right."

I point out the kitchen door and she disappears, thanking me again. I go for the coffee maker and start a fresh batch, selecting two mugs from the cabinet, and two clean spoons from the drawer. I glance around the kitchen and rush for the few dishes in the sink. Steve and I usually keep it pretty clean, and I think he makes a point to do so, in case he brings Natasha back for a drink, or to fuck her when he thinks I'm not there. I hastily wash the few dishes in the sink, dry them, and put them away. Davine is sitting at the counter watching me by the time I turn around. I hadn't even heard her walk back in. She grins at me and seeing her in my shirt makes me feel almost like I'm supposed to be making her breakfast, as if she slept overnight in my room. The shirt is large on her slender frame. I tear my eyes away after a moment.

"You seem kind of shy," she says blatantly. I glance down and blush. I hook my thumbs into the loops of my jeans.

"Just trying to do a lady a favor. Coffee will be ready soon. You can stay as long as you want, though. Wait till your laundry's finished."

"Thanks. To be honest, I'm feeling too lazy to run back out in the rain over to my place. I'm sorry for dripping all over your shirt," Davine explains, glancing down at it. Her hair had begun to drip consistently onto the gray fabric.

"No—no. Don't worry about it," I say, waving a hand. She places a cell phone on the countertop and sighs.

"Mondays, right?" she says.

"Yeah. It'd be nicer if the sun was out."

She nods.

"So, what do you do, Bucky?" she asks. I start around the counter and take a seat on the other side of it, so I'm facing her.

"Currently, I don't work."

And I _hate _already where this conversation is going, sure she _already_ thinks less of me simply because I don't have a job. I must look like a loser to her.

"I'm, uh, just getting back on my feet, you know. I've been sort of around the world for military jobs. I'm trying to decide what else to do. I've had a lot of different experiences, and I'm done serving."

"Well, you must have some money put away. You've got a nice apartment."

"Thanks. Actually, it's my friend Steve's. He's military too," I explain casually, pressing an elbow on the counter. She must not have been present at the session where I mentioned Steve.

"Oh. Is he still working?"

"Uh, it's complicated. But yeah, I guess you could say that."

Davine nods. I look at her fingers and grin with relief to find no rings.

"What about you? What's your story?" I ask. And then I realize her gaze is stuck on my shiny hand. I shift it under the table and clasp my knee with it, a bit nervously.

"I'm—s-sorry. I shouldn't have stared. I didn't mean to," she says, her amber eyes meeting mine with guilt. So she _had_ heard the fake story about my arm. I place my hand back on the countertop, and she doesn't move her eyes from mine.

"It's okay. You can look if you want," I say calmly with a shrug. Slowly but surely, she looks. Most people don't notice it at first, especially if I'm wearing long sleeves. Davine swallows a moment and her eyes widen a bit, but not with fear.

"It's just…I've never seen a prosthetic quite like that."

I laugh quietly through my nose.

"They must've been working on some insane new technology. May I?"

For a moment, I'm not sure what she's asking, but then I see her hands sliding closer to mine across the counter.

"Oh," I say, stupidly. She nearly touches my hand before pausing to meet my eyes again.

"I'm sorry—I'm just—I'm being so weird. That was a rude question. I'm sorry. That's your personal space, isn't it?"

I detect the slightest hint of nervousness in her voice.

"No…I don't mind," I explain.

"It's just that I was a doctor, I mean, that's why I was in the military in the first place. I've seen a lot of amputations and I've done some research in prosthetics…I've just never seen anything quite like this," she says. The fascination in her voice makes me smile. I laugh, and she smiles in some surprise.

"I've seen a _lot _of prosthetics. But nothing like this," she repeats, absolutely mesmerized.

Slowly, she picks up my hand. _God. She's touching me._ She turns it palm up, pushing up my sleeve a bit, her lips falling open. I get lost in staring at her face while she examines my arm. Her eyes flit excitedly from one part to the next. Gently, I squeeze her wrist, and flex the fingers for the full effect.

"Oh my god," she whispers. I grin. She slides her fingers up the limb and down it before meeting my gaze again.

"This is…incredible, Bucky," she says nodding.

"Can you…do you shower with it on?"

"Sometimes," I shrug.

"Does it rust?"

"So far so good. I know how to care for it."

"Can you…does—do you feel this?" she asks, gently sliding her fingers up and down my arm again. _Oh yes_. There's something so intimate about this, that I have to close my eyes a moment and try to control myself.

"Yes," I whisper.

With that, she places it back down on the counter. When I open my eyes, she's looking at me. And then I notice Steve in the doorway and wonder how long he's been standing there. Davine gasps slightly when she catches him in her peripheral vision.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you…two."

He walks into the kitchen.

"I think this is ready, Bucky," he says, hurrying to turn off the percolating coffee pot.

"Crap," I mutter, hurrying around to pour Davine a cup.

"I'm Steve," Steve grins. Davine turns on the stool and stands up to meet Steve. _Fuck. She better not be checking him out._ He's a bit more built than even I am, a major change from our younger days.

"I'm Davine. I met your friend at the veteran support group they run at the community centre," she explains. _Your friend?_ I wish she'd have used my name.

"Oh, really? It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Steve says in his chivalrous way.

"Is it just me, or do you guys look awfully young?" she asks, laughing a bit. Steve laughs.

"Trust me, not as young as I look."

"I'm doing laundry here—I actually live in the complex next door. But our power went out. I ran into Bucky downstairs and he lent me some detergent. And a shirt," she explains.

"Did he? It actually just stopped pouring out there. Well, that was nice of him. I actually have to head out again in a bit, so if you'll excuse me. But it was nice to meet you, Davine," Steve finishes. I eye him a moment and cock a brow. Steve grins at me and cocks both brows, winking, before backing out of the kitchen.

"Likewise," she smiles before sitting at the counter again.

I spoon two teaspoons of sugar into each mug and hand one to Davine.

"Here you are. If you want more sugar, please let me know," I grin.

"Thank you so much."

I sit in front of her again and she smiles.

"I'm sorry. That was _so_ weird. I shouldn't have asked to touch your arm."

I laugh genuinely.

"No, it's okay. You said you were a doctor, right?"

And finally she blushes.

"I don't think I could hassle you for some dryer sheets?"

"You're my guest. You just say the word, it's yours," I explain before excusing myself to disappear to my room again. She takes the box down to the basement and I wait there patiently. When she returns, she thanks me and places the box on the counter.

"So Davine. Where does a pretty name like that come from?" I ask interestedly. She keeps stealing glances at my hand on the table. Part of me wishes she'll try to hold it again. She laughs from the flattery.

"Well, my dad's name is David, and my mom's was Charline. And then they decided it would be cute to combine theirs just for me. Nothing too unique."

"Was?"

"My mom passed away when I was seventeen. She had a rare cancer. Yeah. I think in a way I'm grateful that she went…When I was younger, I had no idea what I wanted to do—not a clue. Seeing my dad take such good care of her in the end, I guess that's when I decided I wanted to be a doctor."

"I'm sorry—"

"No. _Please_, don't be. I've told this story a hundred times. Well, anyway, my dad didn't really have the money to pay for more than just undergrad—even after my mother passed. It was one of her dying wishes for me to go to college, so that's what my dad and I did with the money she left. I joined the army as soon as I graduated from university. Yep. That's how I did my medical journey."

"Wow. I can't top that."

She blushes again, nodding.

"Looking back, I don't think there's anything I'd have changed. I mean…I saw the world. I had so many experiences not many people can say they've had."

I eye the scar on her cheek.

"And I've done a lot of good."

_I've done a lot of evil._ She takes a deep breath before blowing at a spoonful of coffee and trying it.

"How's the coffee?" I ask, hoping I didn't screw it up.

"Oh, good. Good. It's hot, so…What about you? Where's a name like Bucky come from?"

"You know something, I really don't know. It's just what my friend Steve has always called me."

"What about your childhood, your journey to becoming a soldier?"

My heart skips a beat, because I've realized that pretty soon I'll have to start lying to Davine.

"I…was orphaned really young. There's not much to say there, except that Steve is just about all the family I have. He's really more like a brother to me. I joined the army pretty young. Think I was twenty-one."

"Wow," she says quietly, nodding, giving me her undivided attention. I laugh kind of nervously. _Change the subject, James. Change it before she asks too many questions you can't answer_.

"So why not work in a hospital? Why be a hairdresser? I don't mean any offense by it, it just seems that someone with all your skills and experience would be changing more lives in an operating room than in a salon."

"…I dunno. I just…I think that part of my life is over. To be perfectly honest, I…I lost someone on the job. Someone very special to me. It's not like you don't see death every day as a soldier, because you do. That's part of the job, but…like I said, that part of my life is over. I'm starting fresh. It was actually a friend who suggested I check out the support group. I know I should talk _more_, but…"

"No, no, no. Don't pressure yourself. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable—"

"No. It was—you were perfectly right to ask. We're in the same boat, aren't we? I mean, you lost your arm—I mean my problems just seem so tiny in comparison. I…"

We're quiet for a moment.

"Davine, I'd reallylike to take you out to dinner sometime, if that's alright."

She smiles at me and stands up.

"I'm gonna go check on my laundry. But it was really nice to meet you, talk to you," she says, picking up her phone from the table and pocketing it, all while still looking in my eyes. _I fucked up_.

"I just have an early start tomorrow and I want to run some errands too before the night is up. I'll see you again?" she asks. I nod and she takes off. Just like that. I stare at my hand a moment and sigh. She didn't seem bothered by it—no, she was just about ready to take it home with her! What could I have possibly done wrong? I sigh again in irritation. When I walk into the bathroom, I find that Davine has left her sweater and shirt there. They're both wet as they hang on the shower. I pick them up. Now I still have an excuse to talk to her. Steve leans in the doorway. I hastily begin to fold Davine's clothes and tuck them under my arm. I brush past Steve out of the bathroom.

"Hey, Steve."

"Don't 'Hey, Steve' me. Why'd your date take off so quickly?" he asks with a laugh.

"Not really in the mood, Steve," I admit, placing Davine's clothes on my dresser and turning around to find Steve standing at my door with crossed arms and that smile he does that irritates me.

"Why do you have her clothes?"

"She was soaked. She walked home from therapy, forgot an umbrella—didn't she tell you all of this?" I ask, pushing past him again. I return to the kitchen to wash Davine's mug.

"Hey, come on, Buck. I'm just trying to talk to you. How was your day?"

"I thought you said you had to run back out somewhere," I explain, turning to look at him from my spot at the sink.

"I just wanted to give you some _privacy_ with the lady," he says a bit slyly.

"But you didn't, because you were just waiting in your room, listening. That's how you know she left a minute ago."

"Come on, Bucky. I wasn't _listening_—"

"Just leave it," I sigh, my patience thinning as I rinse the mug and spoon at the sink.

"Are you alright, Bucky?" Steve asks. I rinse my hands and stare out the window.

"I just want to be alone right now, if you don't mind."

"…Okay, buddy. Don't think too hard, alright?"

I wait a moment before Steve walks out of the apartment. I know I shouldn't be jealous of him. He's my friend, and I know he honestly wants me to be happy. He's been around for me, and that's all I could ask of him. He's got Natasha, though, and women are always _throwing _themselves at his dick. I feel lonely these days. I'm not sure how much therapy helps if I can't even tell the _truth _about the horrible things I've done. Davine's the only reason I plan on going back. And after a minute of staring out the window, I remember that I don't have to wait until Wednesday evening to see her again. I make sure not to forget my key as I exit the apartment and make my way to the roof. It's just dark enough now that everyone's lights are on. Davine's shades are closed.


	4. Chapter 4

Davine nearly leaves as soon as she walks through the door and I catch her eye on Wednesday's group therapy session. She stares at the floor to avoid me a moment before taking a seat somewhere in front. I almost can't see her, but I make a point to go out after her if she decides on leaving early. I place my flesh hand atop Davine's now dry sweater and shirt, which I had neatly folded at my side. Sam speaks for only five minutes before somebody decides to share another story, something about their method for managing PTSD. Twenty minutes before the session is up, Davine breezes out of her seat, grinning kindly at the other woman who frequents therapy. I take my chance and duck out quietly after her.

"Davine."

She pauses not far from the exit, but she doesn't turn around to face me. I make my way towards her and she finally glances back at me. When I see her eyes, I can tell she's been crying again. I stop smiling and take on a gentle tone when I speak.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I just—you left these at my place on Monday. I would've brought them over to you, but…" I may have watched her a few times, but I still don't know what floor or apartment she lives in. She smiles up at me for a second, taking the items.

"That's sweet of you."

She starts for the exit again. I hurry up to her.

"Wait, Davine?"

With her hand on the knob, she pauses again.

"I don't mean to bother you. I can see that you're upset. I just—"

"Look, Bucky, it was probably rude of me to ignore you like that the other night. I just don't think I should really be trying to date right now. And…it has nothing to do with you," she says, smiling weakly.

"You seem like a really sweet guy—"

She covers her mouth a moment and turns away, trying to regain her composure. I wonder then what she's so upset about.

"Hey. Do you want to go somewhere and talk?" I ask gently.

I can't believe she let me walk her home. She brings me to her apartment, because I lie and say that Steve's already home from work. I just want to be alone with her. She sits on the couch, handing me a mug of tea and placing her own on the coffee table. I thank her and stir the mug patiently.

"I'm sorry, Bucky. I'm just a mess lately. I joined that group for a reason, but I can't even stand to stay most of the time…I don't know, it's listening to people's stories that makes it more real for me. It's a reminder…At the same time, I know it isn't healthy to keep these things inside."

"Believe me. I know."

She looks at me and grins. I tilt my head to the side. She untucks the hair from behind her ear and smooths it down. I know this is a quiet attempt to hide the scar on her cheek. She hadn't needed to do so. I wish I could tell her, but I don't want to come on too strong so soon. She folds her hands and sighs.

"So tell me about your week. I dunno, I want to hear something else—anything other than war stories," she grins.

"It's been pretty quiet. But I might be getting a job at the gym where I work out, I'm there frequently enough that someone kind of approached me about it."

She grins shyly, her eyes flitting down my arms a moment.

"You look like you could handle yourself."

"I've never really taught before, but how hard could it be?"

She laughs.

"I have. I mean, with amputees and people rehabilitating from their injuries."

She stops herself short. _Anything other than war stories_.

"Well, then maybe you can teach me," I smile, she laughs again, and the sound is music to my ears. Little do I know, there's a _reason _why I can't stop thinking about the scar on Davine's cheek, and there's a reason why she doesn't want to talk about her time as a soldier. We both know what we don't know…I'd never met a woman who likes to wrestle. My face is just about planted in Davine's carpet, her knees digging into my back where she kneels on top of me, my flesh arm in a death grip, despite her small hands. I'd been stupid enough to ask her to show me some moves she'd taught in the past. They ended up not exactly being the kinds of sequences I'd have thought to teach in a fitness class. I groan and Davine's breathing meets my ears as she laughs.

"Does that hurt?" she asks.

"Not yet," I mumble. And I push up off the floor with the strength of my metal arm. Davine goes flying back with a gasp and I hear her crash, laughing behind me. I turn around on the floor to find her laughing harder. I smile, sure we've made enough ruckus to bother the neighbors downstairs. When she's done laughing so hard that she can't see, she gazes over at me grinning. There's an awkward moment in which we just stare at each other. And then she sits upon her knees, inching towards me. Her hand makes contact with my knee before my phone begins to ring in my pocket. She stops and I let it ring for a second before standing up and excusing myself out into the hall to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Bucky, I've been texting you for an hour. Where are you?" Steve asks. I roll my eyes. The worry in his voice is tangible.

"Hey, I'm fine. I must've lost track of time."

"Well, Natasha made dinner. I thought you'd be done with therapy by now."

"I am. Just save me something. I'm kind of busy right now."

"Are you okay? I'm sorry if I upset you the other day. You haven't said a word to me since."

"Steve, don't have a cow. I'll be back later. Just enjoy your dinner, okay?"

I hang up and when I walk back into Davine's apartment, she's not in the den. I look around a moment before finding my way to the kitchen where she stands washing the mugs we didn't even drink from. I just stand there watching her, my mouth hanging open a bit. If Steve hadn't called when he did, I'm almost sure she would've kissed me. She seemed to be enjoying herself. I'd been the reason she stopped crying. I hadn't seen her smile like that before. When she turns around with a mug clasped in a dish towel, she gasps, nearly dropping the item.

"I didn't hear you," she breathes.

"You scared…the _shit_ out of me."

"I'm sorry."

She turns to place the mug in a cabinet before leaning back against the sink.

"Listen, Bucky, it was really great talking to you, but I have to get up early tomorrow. I think I'm going to just go to bed."

"Yeah, sure. I understand," I grin.

"But I'll see you on Friday?" she asks. I nod before she starts towards me and I wait to follow her to the door.

"And I really hope I didn't hurt you—"

"Not at all," I reassure. She grins.

"Goodnight."

I let the door close in my face and press my ear against it to listen to her retreating back into her apartment. I sigh and slide down the wall, sitting there for a moment. _Look at you, James. You're obsessed. Why? You don't even know this broad._ She just moved with a fluidness that made me want to try and grab her, make it stop…_is that bad? I just want to hold her._ I sigh and get up to make my way back over to Steve's. By the time I get there, there's some baked chicken waiting wrapped up in foil on the kitchen counter. As I wash my hands at the sink, Natasha's groans meet my ears. The noise is much more muffled this time, but I know what's going on in Steve's bedroom. She squeals and I glare into space.

"St-Steve…" she sighs. I hear him laugh a moment, a breathy, dirty sound that makes my skin crawl. I don't like Natasha much, but it still gets me hard when I hear her moaning.

"Unnnnnhh…Ohhh!"

I grab the chicken off the counter and hurry out of the apartment. She'll probably leave right after, but I don't know exactly when that will be, so I trudge up the stairs and sit on the roof ledge to eat. It's chilly tonight, and I scan the complex next door with anticipation. Davine's window is open again, and I can see the couch where I was just sitting with her. But she's not there. I crumble the foil up when I'm finished, crushing the chicken bones along with it.

There is a fire escape that makes its way down from another window that I know is a part of Davine's apartment. She lives on the eighth floor, so it would have been a hell of a drop if she had to try and jump out if there was a fire. I sigh and look down at the ground below before jumping off. I angle myself just so and land with the perfect bend of my knees. I don't usually do this, but I don't want to risk taking the stairs and hearing Natasha in Steve's apartment. It had been a far drop, but I managed not to break anything, standing up slowly. I throw the ball of foil and bones into a trash bin on the sidewalk before hurrying silently across the street and up the fire escape. I had scaled buildings before, and this was nothing new or special. I know I shouldn't. But I just want to _see_ Davine—hear her. I don't believe she wanted to send me away. It was only eight o'clock. She said she didn't think she should be trying to date right now. I bet someone killed her boyfriend and she saw it. What else could it be?

I can hear the weather forecast on the radio as I crouch at the side of the window, just out of view.

"I know, dad. I'm trying…"

She's on the phone.

"Everything is fine. Yes…yeah, I'm fine. No, I don't need any money. Dad, I _don't need _any money…no—no…"

I close my eyes to get lost in her voice. The volume gets lower on the radio.

"I'm fine," she promises again, "I have to be up early tomorrow, that's all."

I slide down the wall and sit with my arms wrapped around my knees, listening. She sighs and I listen to her walk closer to the window. My heart freezes.

"Fucking cold," she mutters, pulling up the shade. The window itself is already open. I listen to Davine close it, but she leaves it open a few inches to let in some air. I hear her walk out of the room for a moment, another door closing. I take the opportunity to glance into her bedroom. There's a lilac bedspread, a lamp shining on a dresser nearby. The bed is big enough that I would have been able to sleep right next to her. The closet door is open and the clothes Davine had picked out for tomorrow are already hanging up on a hook; a white tank-top, some black shorts. A sink runs and I hear Davine approaching. I duck out of the way just in time before she has a chance to see me. That same excitement fills my chest, as it had the first time I saw her from my spot on the roof.

She gargles and I smile; she's getting ready for bed. I hear her walk around a moment before the radio, which had been playing soft jazz, cuts off. Davine walks out of the room again, I'm guessing to the bathroom. I close my eyes and try to imagine her feet stepping across the hardwood as I hear her walking back into her room. She sighs and I hear the lamp click off. It's dark now. And then I hear her crying. It starts off calm and sniffly, and then she's audibly weeping.

"I'm sorry," she breathes, and I wonder desperately who she's apologizing to. I find myself looking back and forth, debating whether I should climb down the fire escape and make my way to Davine's door, knock, and comfort her. But that would be creepy. How would I explain myself for showing up again? She cries herself to sleep while I listen. I pull my phone out of my pocket to find that it's eleven-thirty. _What am I doing?_ I jump with the stealth of a cat back down the fire escape and make my way to Steve's. When I get there, I don't hear him or Natasha anymore. I wonder whether she left. No one's peeing in the dark when I go into the bathroom this time. I brush my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror. When I shower, I can't help thinking about her, the way it physically hurt me to hear her cry like that, the pressure of her knees on my back…I shower distractedly before getting out and toweling off. When I lie down in bed, she's the first thing I dream about.

I don't dream about touching her and kissing her like I want to. Instead I dream that I'm following Davine, like a stalker. I know that this isn't just a dream, it's a flashback…she was in a business suit and I was following her down a street, I can't really tell where. She didn't even hear it when I ran up behind her and tased her. She didn't even scream. Her mouth just hung open and she froze. I'd done it just so she couldn't move. It had to be that way. I had to bring her back alive. I put a bag over her head before waking up in a cold sweat, panting. _Fuck_. I know it was real. It had to be. I stumble out of bed and stare at myself in the mirror, damn near in tears.

Why would I do that? _When _did I do that? I wonder desperately as I feel my heart racing. I shake my head and pace back and forth before rushing over to the closet and pulling something out of it that even Steve has no idea I still have. My hands tremble with uncertainty as I stare down at the black mask. I shake my head. _I wouldn't. I couldn't have hurt Davine…we never met before now... _I throw the mask on the floor and stare at it with anger. _It's not me. I'm not him anymore_. Steve had me throw that all away, the mask, the goggles, the jacket—everything. He had meant to help me start over. But for some reason, I took that mask from the trash and kept it. He doesn't even know. I couldn't tell myself before why I kept it. But now I know it was to remind myself what a monster I really am.


	5. Chapter 5

On Friday, Davine doesn't show up to therapy. I'd had the same flashback earlier that day as I woke up. I'm starting to wonder whether Davine is really the one I'd kidnapped. Maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me. I mean, if it had _really _been me, wouldn't she remember it? She's still alive, and that means she got away. No one got away from the Winter Soldier, at least not as far as I could remember. Then again, I'd shot Natasha and she still lives to tell. Sam walks right up to me as soon as the session ends.

"You were basically not present the entire session. What's on your mind?" he asks. I stand up from my chair and fold it, starting towards the corner to place it against everyone else's.

"Why would you care? Has Steve been asking about me?"

Sam sighs and I turn around to face him.

"Don't be like that, Barnes. I'm trying to do you a solid here."

"…I'm sorry. I just…I don't know how much it really helps for me to be here, if I can't even tell the _truth_ about me."

"Maybe you should talk more with your personal therapist. Isn't that what she's there for—?"

"How'd _you _know about that?"

Sam sighs and his gaze falls away from me a moment as he shakes his head, looking like he didn't mean to say what he just said.

"Steve told you, didn't he?" I ask, nodding. I brush past Sam.

"Bucky—"

"Hey, next time you're doing a job with Steve, try and keep the topic off me, okay?"

Maybe I was a little bit nasty. I don't know why it bothers me that Steve would talk to Sam about me…I wonder whether he talks to Natasha about me. I hope not. I'm none of her business…I wonder whether she told Steve that I saw her naked. It was an accident. And in my spontaneous rage, someone bumps right into me; I didn't even hear my name being called repetitively. And then I feel a hand tug in the bend of my arm. I stare down at Davine. She looks like she'd been trying to get my attention for a while. Her eyebrows crease.

"Are you okay?" she asks, "I don't think you heard me…you look pissed off."

I smile.

"Uh, I'm sorry. I was just thinking. I didn't hear you."

She hasn't let go of my arm.

"Do you want to come over for a drink? I didn't come to group today," she says. My heart jumps.

"Uhm, I can't really drink these days. It's…" _No. Don't tell her you're taking meds. She'll think you're crazy…you _are_ crazy._

"The truth is, I don't really care. I just don't want to be alone tonight," she admits. How could I have possibly said no? The look in her eyes is almost pleading.

"I just thought…we had a good time before."

_Had she come here just to wait for me to walk out so she could talk to me?_

She sits across the couch from me as I listen. Everything she says is so detailed, I could have closed my eyes and dreamed to her voice. She tells me about things she probably shouldn't; we barely know each other. She tells me about a boyfriend that had tried to rape her when she was fifteen and how she fought him off. She tells me about the little boy named Azar that she saved from shrapnel injuries on a tour in Afghanistan. She tells me about how she would hold her mother's hand, fall asleep in bed beside her because she feared in the end, that she'd wake up without having been able to say goodbye. Davine tells me all these things I wish I could share without _lying _to her.

"So, why don't you drink?" she asks, lying her head to the side on the couch.

"It's just…a personal choice," I lie, nodding.

"You used to be an alcoholic, or it's your way of lying about anti-anxiety meds. I'm not going to judge you. I just got off mine a month ago." I sit up straight, feeling a bit anxious then because I was sure I _couldn't _lie to her even if I tried.

"Proud to say I've never been an alcoholic. But, yeah, you figured me out."

"I was on Lorazepam," she says, her amber eyes locking in on mine. I can't look away.

"To sleep?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Me too…And how do you sleep now?" I ask, almost whisper. I'm afraid to hear the answer. I know how she really sleeps.

"I don't feel like I can anymore, but I told myself I wasn't going to get dependent," she admits, looking away from me.

"It's okay to need help sometimes," I say gently.

"Right now, if I try to sleep without it, I get flashbacks. I'm in therapy for it now, aside from Sam's group."

"It helps?" she asks, looking up at me again.

I nod. She grins.

"…I don't know what it is, but something is really familiar about you, Bucky," she says, looking at me kinda hard, and for a moment, I'm afraid she'll figure it out. If she recognizes me, then I know for sure those flashbacks weren't just my mind playing tricks on me.

"I feel like…like I know you, or something. It's…hard to explain."

She's twisting her fingers nervously.

"Would it be strange if I said I feel the same?"

We stare at each other for a while. Part of me hopes she won't recognize me. _Why would I have let her go?_ And suddenly she pulls her hair from out of the pony tail it was in and lets it cascade over her shoulders. She runs her fingers through it, but I know she's trying to hide the scar on her cheek. I want to ask about it, but I don't want to make her feel self-conscious around me. I hated the way people acted _careful _around me, especially after they saw my arm. It wasn't like that with Davine. She wasn't afraid of me.

"You must be hungry. I'm going to order some take-out. Have you ever had Middle Eastern?" she asks as she walks into the kitchen.

"No. But why not?" I call from where I sit. I listen to the dial tone of the phone in the other room. I pull mine out of my pocket to find a text message from Steve. I roll my eyes. I don't want to talk to him. He's asking where I am. I reply by telling him to go to bed. And then he calls me, so I ignore the incoming call.

"What was that? Everything okay?" Davine asks, walking back into the room.

"Oh, nothing. Just a friend calling me," I explain nonchalantly. Davine turns the volume up on the TV after telling me the food will probably take half an hour, maybe forty minutes. I notice that Davine has sat relatively closer to me this time. She has her bare feet up on the couch. I gaze over at her, almost unable to see her face from the curtain of hair hiding it.

"You straightened your hair today," I say absently. I hadn't really meant to say this out loud. Davine turns to look at me with a toothy smile.

"I usually don't. Heat's awful for your hair," she explains.

"Is it?"

"Yes. It's already made of dead material. Burning the shit out of it just makes it worse."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She laughs, shifting a bit. She looks over at my arm. I smile.

"I don't mean to keep staring, it just looks so…I've never seen one like that before."

I stretch the limb out in front of me and yawn slightly.

"I know. It's hard to ignore, I guess."

When I let my hand rest halfway between us, she's still looking at it.

"I can run over to my place and throw on a long-sleeved shirt if it bothers you."

"No, not at all," she reassures, "I just think it's amazing."

The urge to kiss her is getting harder and harder to suppress. I stare at the random movie on the screen before I feel the weight of Davine's hand on mine. I turn to face her slowly.

"It's cold," she says quietly, "Do you feel that?"

"The chill, or your hand?" I ask.

"Both," she asks just as quietly.

"Everything." She folds her fingers into mine casually and suddenly I feel like we could never be separated. She holds my hand and rests her head on the back of the couch while eyeing the screen. She starts to close her eyes and when she looks like she could be asleep, I move a little bit closer to her. I tilt my head to the side to rest it on the couch. I can just about smell her hair from where my nose is upturned. Davine opens her eyes and doesn't seem surprised to see me as close as I am. I don't know how long we sit like that, but then her buzzer sounds and she hops up from the couch to go and answer and let the delivery guy in.

We end up watching The Great Gatsby and the food isn't bad. Davine manages to fall asleep on my shoulder and I just let her. I let her slip down my chest and catch her in my lap. I turn the volume down low on the television. Davine's hair is softer than I'd tried to imagine. It had begun to curl again, the more I messed with it. I shift slowly to recline, tuck my legs up on the couch. She doesn't even stir as I get as comfortable as possible. I pull the hair back from her cheek and lightly draw a finger down the scar. I fall asleep before Nick Carraway makes it to Gatsby's funeral…

A woman is screaming and there's someone driving the getaway van. I can tell it's Davine by her voice. She won't stop whimpering, telling me to let her go. A shot fires through the rear where I'm holding Davine's hands behind her back, trying to tie them. The driver was shot, and the van begins to reel out of control. Someone is coming to stop me. I brace myself as a violent impact stops the vehicle. I stand up, still grasping Davine's arms. I pull the bag down further over her head. Someone is calling her name. When I kick open the doors of the van, another woman is running towards the it where it crashed. I grab Davine and drag her out onto the pavement, drawing the dagger I had and holding it up against Davine's throat.

"Please—don't!" This woman begs, making her way closer and closer. She has brown shoulder-length hair, and as she gets closer and closer, I begin to lift Davine off her feet, warning her partner not to come closer, I'd do it. I don't want to fail this mission. I can't. If I don't kill them, they'll kill me. That's their mission. I swipe the knife down the side of Davine's cheek and a scream escapes that I can hear clear as day through the bag over her head. She clasps my arms, pleading. The woman who was advancing finally stops, slowly moving to put the gun down before I can make a fatal move. She holds her gun away from her slowly, beginning to crouch low to drop it.

"Please…we'll do whatever you want. Just let her go and we'll come with you willingly."

Davine had no idea what was going on. She's calling this woman's name. I can just barely hear it. _No, they're supposed to be restrained._ I decide it's best if I put Davine down and collect the woman myself. There's no chance of her escaping me now. And right before the other woman places the gun on the pavement, she takes a shot, just as I'm throwing Davine to the ground. The bullet ricochets off my metal limb and I watch the brunette drop to the ground. Davine screams.

"Olivia?!" Her partner. The one who tried to shoot me. A helicopter begins to approach. It doesn't look like HYDRA to me. Davine is pulling the bag off her head. I kick her between the shoulders as she tries to crawl away, and she knocks her head off the curb, falling unconscious before she has the chance to turn around and catch sight of me. Another gunshot sounds. This one hits me in the leg and I turn slowly to find Olivia on the ground, bleeding as her hand quivers with the gun. I won't be able to get far if I try to carry Davine with this injury. I can't risk getting caught. Instead I run away before Olivia can take another shot…

"Bucky," Davine says. I feel cool hands on my cheeks. I open them to find myself looking up at her.

"Oh my god—I'm late. How did we fall asleep like that?" she asks, jumping off me. I just lie there as she disappears to the bathroom where I hear the water running. I look around to find that the takeout from last night is still sitting on the coffee table, the containers empty. I look towards a shelf where there are some photos and books. I slowly stand up off the couch, a certain photo having caught my eye. I know before I get close enough to pick it up with trembling hands that it's Olivia. Something had triggered these memories. I freeze and my heart stops for a moment. I did this. I'm the reason that woman is dead. I'm the reason there' a scar on Davine's face. I probably would have killed her, too, if that helicopter hadn't come when it did. I place the photo back where I found it and stumble over to the window where the sun is shining in, digging holes into my temples. _No__—__I didn't do it. I didn't mean to!_ I already know without asking that Olivia must have been that "special someone" Davine had lost, the reason why she cries herself to sleep at night. I also know that there are chunks of information Davine had neglected to tell me from all her stories. We're connected somehow. We've met before, she just doesn't know it. Her voice nearly frightens me when she walks back into the room, pulling her hair into a messy bun.

"I have to go—I'm late for work," she says.

"On a Saturday?" I ask dumbfounded.

"Uhm, you can stay if you want, though. I didn't really mean to wake you up. I just have to go," she explains, picking up her car keys from a coat hanger by the door. She doesn't even pause to look at me, and I'm grateful for this. She would have seen the horrified expression on my face. When I pull my phone out of my pocket, I find that it's dead. _No. Don't tell Steve__—__don't tell anyone._ I pace back and forth in Davine's apartment. And then I pick up our mess from the night before and start cleaning up just to distract myself. _She'll hate you if she finds out. She'll never talk to you again_. I even wipe the table with the sponge in the sink and when I lean against the counter, I haven't really stopped thinking. I know I should probably leave now, but curiosity gets the better of me. I find myself in Davine's room, pulling open drawers. I don't really know what I'm trying to find. I'm just hoping the flashback wasn't real. But I knew the second I woke up and found that photo, it _had _to be. _Shut up, Bucky. You probably just saw the photo before and didn't realize. It entered your subconscious, so you dreamt about it._ But it was too vivid to ignore.

When I open Davine's closet, something drops out and lands at my feet. And I _know _the last thing I should be doing is going through her things, read her deepest thoughts, but I pick up the journal with trembling hands and sit down on the floor. I stare at it hard for a few minutes straight before finding the courage to start turning the pages. Sure enough, I find countless entries about this Olivia, entries about things that sound kind of like HYDRA missions to me. Why would Davine be working for HYDRA? I would have known. The word CIA pops up a number of times, but in ways that make it clear Davine had little to no positive feelings towards them. I begin to connect the dots more and more. She was not a solider, she was an assassin. The types of things Davine had written about were the stuff of nightmares—the same sorts of things I had done. As I read on, it's clear to me that she thought she was doing good, protecting her country. Was it possible she'd been as brainwashed as I?

The moment I read the words "Winter Soldier," I have to put the book down. My heart races and I stare at the journal with utter disbelief. I take a couple of deep breaths before picking it up again. _Have never seen him. Apparently nobody has, and I wonder if he's even real. But if S.H.I.E.L.D. believes he _might _even exist, then we have to stop him. We haven't stopped anyone from S.H.I.E.L.D. in a while. I'm hoping we won't have to. They're not exactly on our side, but Olivia says that if they get in the way, we will be forced to stop them. Some of their agents are questionable, anyway…_

I shake my head and decide I've had enough for one day. My hands are still shaking when I push the journal back where it had fallen from in Davine's closet. I make sure to close the door, try to make it look like I was never even there, before I quietly leave and head back to Steve's. He's sitting at the counter when I walk past the kitchen. He scrambles out of his chair.

"Where have you _been_?" he asks, hurrying after me before I can close my bedroom door.

"Bucky?"

I try my best to wipe the panicked expression off my face before turning to look at him.

"I was calling you and you weren't answering? I thought that you—"

"What, finally killed myself?"

"That's not funny," Steve says crossing his arms.

"I was at Davine's," I breathe before walking into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

"Really? Is that where you were all night?"

"Christ, Steve, what is it with you? I'm a grown man, in case you'd forgotten!"

"Look, I know you're not exactly pleased that I talked to Sam about you—"

"Exactly! If I wanted to tell him and everybody else my problems, _I would_. But I don't want to, Steve. I'm not trying to burden anyone."

Steve sighs.

"You're not alone, Bucky. You're not a burden."

"Just leave me alone. I have to shower."

I close the bathroom door before having another breakdown.

I didn't want to be around Steve and his worrying, so I went for a walk. On my way back at sunset, I'm still trying to figure out how to deal with these insane things that are happening to me. When I enter the apartment complex, Davine is leaning against the wall, between the elevator doors. I stop dead in my tracks upon seeing her. Am I hallucinating? She smiles and stands up.

"I forgot what floor you live on. I was just coming to see how you were doing, since you decided not to stay," she grins. I'm starting to think she actually _likes_ me. She'd been waiting there for _me_.

"Do you want to come over again?" she asks.

As soon as Davine closes the door, she grabs my hand. She keeps her eyes locked on it, with this longing look, or something I can't really decipher. My heart beats too fast and I can't figure out how to form a sentence. The next thing I know, she's kissing me. My back makes contact with the wall and the breath is knocked out of me from the sheer surprise of it all. _She's kissing me_. My eyes are still open as I look at her face. Her eyes are closed, tight like she's afraid this is just a dream, and she's only trying to race time before she wakes up. I tilt my head down to kiss her back, pulling my flesh arm around her, and after a few seconds, she slowly breaks the kiss. We stare at each other for a moment, and I can't stop wondering any longer.

"Who is Olivia?" I breathe.

Davine takes a step back from me. I stay standing where I am against the wall. A hand covers her mouth and she looks me up and down a moment.

"Have you ever known anyone named Olivia?" I probably shouldn't be asking. I probably went and ruined everything. She's about to ask me to leave.

"If you know Olivia, then you know more than you _should _know," she says quietly. I take a step towards her and she backs up more, so I pause.

"N-no…I…I'm not going to hurt you," I promise. _I mean it this time._

"I'm really not. I just need to know," I explain.

"Where is Olivia now?"

Davine stares at me a moment longer before walking towards the photograph I'd picked up earlier. Slowly, she turns around to show it to me.

"She's right here," Davine whispers, and I notice the tears rolling out of her eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"She's dead. Who are you, really and what do you want?" she barks, and she places the photograph back on the shelf before whipping around with a gun in her hands. I didn't even see it coming. I put my hands up as if to surrender, but I'm not really scared, to be honest.

"Who the _fuck _are you? What do you want?"

"I don't know what—"

"Get on your knees. On the floor. Now!"

Perhaps I've made a mistake. But I do as I'm told and Davine kicks me in the back, telling me to lie down. She's breathing unevenly. I can tell she's crying. She kneels on my spine and feels up and down my body, in my pockets. All she finds is my wallet and my cell phone. I listen to her place the items on the coffee table.

"Listen, Davine. I'm not going to hurt you. I swear."

I feel the cold tip of the gun against the nape of my neck.

"_How did you know her?_ Are you one of them, too?"

"One of who, Davine?"

After a moment, it becomes clear to her that I could not possibly be a threat.

"I just want to talk to you. That's all…"

It took a moment before I could convince Davine that I wasn't dangerous. She held onto my phone and my wallet regardless, even went through the wallet in attempts to make sure I was who I said I was. I sat patiently and quietly on her couch as she compared me to the license photo (_fake _license that Steve had Natasha make to give me a new identity) I carried before calming down just a little bit. She still held the gun really tight.

"Listen, if you're going to shoot me, shoot me. I'm no angel. I've killed people, too," I explain calmly. Davine stays standing where she is.

"How did you know Olivia?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Are you her brother? She never told me about a brother. She was an only child."

"Tell me who she was, Davine."

"No, you don't deserve to kn—"

"If she's already dead, what have you got to lose?"

She slowly but surely breaks down to the floor, removing the bullets from the gun before placing it at her side.

"It's _my fault_," she wheezes, "I got caught. If I had just been more careful, she wouldn't have tried to save me, and she wouldn't have died." Slowly, I make my way to the floor and she allows me to take her hands. I pull a tissue from a box on the table and start to wipe her eyes. She turns her face aside.

"I worked for the CIA," I lie. I just need to know the truth. She stops crying and stares at me.

"Then you must have heard what happened."

"Actually, I'm not sure. I need you to tell me."

"How did you know her?" Davine asks me again.

"Through friends." You lie enough and it becomes second nature.

"She was mine…I needed somebody," she breathes, wiping her eyes, "And that somebody just happened to be another woman…" I'd only fantasized about these kinds of things before. I shift a little bit closer to Davine on the floor, clasp her waist patiently. She stares at me, but it's like she's seeing through me. I wait for her to continue speaking.

"They promised me everything—_everything_…they paid me more than I was making as a doctor…I used to work for a government agency—don't ask me how they found me. It was our job to hunt these people down, bad people, and get rid of them. How do you think they found terrorists like bin Laden? They hand picked me, after Olivia died. I had skills they saw as useful. I got trained…"

It wasn't all in my head.

"Olivia told me who she was, who she worked for, what she did. I…got caught in the middle of things. She told me things I wasn't supposed to know—that's why he took me. To get to her. There was a job where she was supposed to eliminate someone. Someone that was coming for her and other agents, because they knew too much. They called him the Winter Soldier. I never saw him, but I _know_ he killed her. And for some reason, I'm the one who survived. It should've been _me_…I replaced her because I wanted to find her killer. But one day I woke up and realized that hate begets hate…I wasn't going to find the man, even if I turned the world upside down. I had to let Olivia go. I spent two years looking for him. I knew it wasn't going to happen, so eventually I stopped chasing. They were putting me on all these other missions. I couldn't focus. I would have gotten myself killed."

My heart crumbles and dissolves in the pit of my stomach, but somehow, the suffering is worth it as Davine rests her face in my neck, gripping my shoulders as if she's afraid to let go. Something tells me she's been keeping this in for far too long. We sit there on the floor a while, until Davine calms down.

"Why did you ask me now? How did you know her? She didn't work for the CIA, but something like it."

"I saw that picture on the shelf, and I knew I'd seen her before. I just had to know. Do you trust me now?" I'm only waiting for her to throw me out, but to my surprise, she nods slowly. Davine hands me back my wallet and my phone. She sits on the couch and I stand up, unsure whether or not I should go.

"Will you just stay a little bit longer?" she asks, looking up at me.

"Sit with me?"

I sit beside her and before I know it, we fall asleep that way again. I don't have any flashbacks or bad dreams in the middle of the night, and when I wake up, Davine is still asleep on my chest. Her head feels like a fire, a pleasant burn. I push my hands through her hair, the sun shining through the window on my face. Without getting up, I find a missed call from Steve and a text message awaiting me. He says he hopes I'm alright, and he's not going to be home until Monday. I decide to text him back so he doesn't have a heart attack while on whatever mission it is he must be on with Natasha. I sigh and Davine wakes up. She blinks slowly, wipes her eyes. I stay lying there as she leans upon my chest with one hand while the other is pulling strands of hair off her cheek. The pressure of her weight on me is arousing and I have to sit up a moment.

"What time is it? …How'd we fall asleep?" she asks.

"I don't know. You went to sleep on me and I didn't want to wake you up, so I stayed."

She looks away shyly for a moment.

"I hope it's not weird, that I told you all of that. Please don't tell anyone else."

"Why would I do that?" I ask genuinely. Davine shrugs.

"But you knew her?" she asks again. I swallow the lie while nodding.

"I hope it doesn't bother you that I've been with a woman before," she says.

"Why would it?" I ask genuinely.

She looks away shyly again.

"I thought we weren't dating," I add half-jokingly.

"I didn't really mean that," she mumbles, "I just haven't been with anyone, since her. And I don't know how…" she doesn't finish her sentence.

"You should…maybe you should find someone who's not so broken like me," she explains, pulling her knees to her chest. Her legs are still tangled up in mine.

"What? You're not broken, Davine," I breathe. I rub her shoulder and she stands up.

"I just can't do this right now, Bucky. I shouldn't have kissed you like that earlier. I mean, being reminded of Olivia just makes it so much harder…"

"I understand."

I stand up off the couch and start to push my feet into my shoes.

"Wait, I don't want you to leave."

I pause in making my way to the door. This broad is starting to mess with my head.

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to confuse you or something…I still…I like you, Bucky."

I grin slowly.

"Okay. Why don't we start over? How about I take you to dinner tonight, and we can try to talk like two normal people." To my surprise, she laughs.

"But I think I'm gonna need your number. I don't want to rush over here until you're ready to go."


	6. Chapter 6

I won't lie and say that even five weeks later, I don't still feel like a monster for killing the love of Davine's life. I still haven't told her—I _can't_ tell her—and I haven't told anyone else. I've been carrying this guilt like a weight on my shoulders, and lately it's been feeling like soon I'm gonna drop it. I'm lying there awake, the autumn breeze dusting across my skin, beneath the lilac bedspread in Davine's bedroom. We've been sleeping together, and that's all. I didn't want her to feel any pressure, think I just wanted to hit it and quit it. After all the stories Steve told me about how I used to be with women, I told myself I was gonna change. Davine's hair tickles my armpit, so I push it out of the way as she continues to slumber. It's three in the morning. She fell asleep hours ago, but I can't sleep. I spend the night here a few times a week. Steve has been busier than usual these days, and I haven't walked into the apartment to hear him and Natasha having sex in nearly two weeks.

They've been doing god knows what, and I don't really care. For the time being, I just want to be with my girl. I've stopped snapping so much at Steve for caring about me, and Sam hasn't had a session in a week because they're renovating the community centre. I don't take medication anymore; I think part of it is because I feel some kind of relief in knowing that I'm trying to do right by Davine now. I still haven't brought her over to meet Steve more than casually, have some of his friends over. He asked me three weeks ago to invite Davine over for dinner, Natasha would make something, but I didn't feel ready to thrust Davine into the madness that is still my life living with Captain America. I couldn't do that to her. I feel an obligation to keep her out of all this crazy agent and spy bullshit. I figured she'd quit for a reason.

I slowly move her head from my chest and sit up in bed. I walk over to the window and stare out it, up to the roof of the apartment complex next door, where I still live with Steve. On nights that I didn't sleep over, I'd still creep up to the roof and try to see her talking on the phone with her dad, brushing her teeth while she sat on the couch watching the weather forecast for the next day. I smile to myself, the thought of getting lost in her taking my mind off the fact that I killed her girlfriend. The blankets rustle.

"…Baby? What are you doing up?" Davine's tired voice meets my ears. I turn my head to the side slowly.

"Nothin'. Just go back to sleep, sweetheart," I whisper, pulling the shade down. I walk around the bed to leave the room. Davine just watches me. I can feel her eyes follow me to the hall. My hands start shaking again and I go into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. _It wasn't you, James. It was the Winter Soldier. You didn't hurt anyone. Stop worrying about it._ I splash some more water on my face, and then there's a knock on the bathroom door.

"James?"

"I'm alright…I'll be right back. Just go to sleep."

"Are you okay?" she presses. I hear the knob turn; I had locked the door.

"I promise, I'll be right back," I call from the inside. I hear her sigh and walk down the hall, but I can tell from the fade of Davine's footsteps that she's not walking back to the bedroom. She's getting frustrated with me. I don't talk enough, she says. She says it feels like I keep things from her. She has no idea just how much. I can feel her trying to get closer every time, wanting me to open up, and I _can't_. I'm in this too deep now to stop. I can't stop because I want her, but I can't give her all of me. I figure, as I stare at myself in the mirror, that it's only a matter of time before she breaks up with me. I start to cry. I can't help it. When I come out of the bathroom, Davine is standing in the hall with a concerned look on her face.

"James?" she asks. I wipe my nose hastily.

"I'm fine, babe. You should be sleeping," I explain.

"James, you're _not _fine. You were crying just now."

"No I wasn't."

I brush past her back into bed. I know she's not going to leave me alone. This is where it starts. Her hands rub my shoulders and back lovingly where I'm lying with my forehead pressed into a pillow. She climbs her way on top of me and presses her lips to the back of my neck.

"You can tell me whatever it is that's bothering you," she whispers, massaging my shoulder.

"Bucky, I'll listen. I love you."

I sigh and close my eyes. When she realizes that I'm not going to say anything more, she gives up and lies there. She's like a blanket with her arms wrapped around mine. To my utter amazement, she puts me to sleep. When I wake up again, the radio is playing soft jazz, and I can smell eggs. Davine isn't by my side or lying on me when I sit up and groan. I'd slept wrong. My neck hurts. I sit up in her bed, catch a glimpse of myself in the bureau mirror. I look a mess. It's a little past twelve in the afternoon and I wonder how long she's been out of bed. I walk slowly in my boxers to the kitchen to find Davine standing there, flipping pancakes at the stove in those tight-looking pants young women wear these days, the ones they call yoga pants.

"Hey, B," she says without even turning around.

"I ran out this morning, then I went to the store to get some stuff for breakfast. I hope you're hungry. I'm not going to eat all these pancakes myself."

I laugh tiredly and make my way over to the counter to take a look.

"You wanna talk about what was bothering you?"

I'm quiet a moment as I sigh. I kiss Davine on the cheek.

"I've gotta shower. I'll be right back. K?"

"James," she says. I stop dead in my tracks.

"I feel like…like I'm the only one in this relationship most of the time. I talk to you sometimes and you _literally _don't respond. What happened to you last night? Please stop pulling away from me."

"I'm not pulling away."

"You don't _have_ to." I turn around slowly.

"Look, there are some things I just don't feel comfortable talking about. Not even with my _therapist_, D. It has nothing to do with you," I admit. She crosses her arms with the spatula before narrowing her eyebrows in what looks like a mixture of frustration and confusion.

"I love you, Davine. I'm just…there are some things that I _can't_ talk about."

"Why? If you don't actually work for the CIA anymore, why the hell do you have to be so secretive? Don't you trust me?" She's growing impatient with me. Slowly, I let go of her, take a step back.

"Wait, that came out wrong. I didn't mean—"

"Maybe we should just take a breather from each other. I've been sleeping over every night this week. I'm gonna go—"

"Bucky, wait—"

"Back to Steve's."

I don't bother to wait for her excuse, but then I pause at the door.

"But you know something, every time I've tried to look at that scar, you turn away. I asked you about it once, and you just changed the subject, like you didn't even hear me. I thought maybe there are just some things you don't want to tell me, and I don't push you for it."

She looks at me with some regret before I hurry back to her room, throw on my shirt, my jeans, grab my phone, and leave.

I pull that mask out of my closet and shove it in my pocket. I breeze casually past Steve, who's making sandwiches in the kitchen. I manage to fool him with a smile. He thinks Davine and I are just fine. I rush down to the first floor and find the dumpster. The foul stench greets my nose as I lift the lid and violently throw that mask away. I don't _ever_ want to see it again. I know Davine must know who gave her that scar, but she still won't say. She's practically told me everything else about the attack, her encounter with the _Winter Soldier_. I know that she doesn't know what he looked like—only his name. I think that I want her to tell me about the scar because part of me is still hopeful that I didn't do it. I kick the dumpster and hold back some tears. I have to calm down before I go back up to Steve's.

"So, how was it?" he asks, when I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.

"How was what?"

"I dunno. You tell me," Steve says cheekily.

"If you're asking about my girlfriend, you're outta luck, bub. That's classified information," I respond with the same level of sass, except Steve knows that I mean it.

"I don't remember you being so…perverted, Steve," I add soberly, taking a seat at the counter. He pushes a sandwich in front of me. I've been getting some of my old memories back, even ones of Steve and I before we went to war, before we were soldiers. He scoffs, but when I look at him while taking a bite of my sandwich, he's blushing like a cherub.

"I'm not a pervert," he argues. I roll my eyes, wanting to finally bring up the number of times I've heard him and Natasha fucking like animals. He still doesn't know how many times I've walked in on that.

"Is there bacon on this?" I ask with my mouth full.

"For an old man, you can really make a sandwich."

Steve giggles before opening his beer.

"So, I was thinking, Natasha and I are having a little break this week, and it would be really nice if we could have a double date, you know, a nice get-together. I haven't seen Davine since you introduced us over a month ago."

"Eh, I dunno. I'm not sure she'd—"

"You didn't even _ask _her," Steve says, nudging my shoulder with a playful punch.

"Come _on_, Bucky. What's the big deal? Nat would _love_ to hang out with someone normal for once."

"Oh, you're not normal?" I ask sarcastically.

"Okay, fine. I'll ask her," I say, staring at the television with both hands on the table. I'd put my sandwich down.

"Hey…hello…earth to Bucky Barnes?" Steve snaps two fingers in front of my face.

"Hey, what's wrong? What's that face for?"

I shake my head and smile a moment.

"Bucky, come on."

"I just don't know if it would be a good idea. Davine's been through some traumatic stuff. What if Natasha tells her something—"

"Come on. Do you really think something like that would happen? Relax a little. Aren't you happy with Davine? Don't you want her to meet your family?"

"…Okay."

I just feel apprehensive about introducing her to everything in my life. Most anyone I know, I know through Steve. Even his neighbor is a CIA agent. I've already lied so much to Davine. There are few things she knows about me that are actually true.

"Do you love her?" Steve asks. I turn to face him at the same time as I reach for my sandwich.

"Do you love Natasha?"

The two of us sit there, staring at each other eat.

"We work together. We spend a lot of time together…she's important to me," Steve admits. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I open my beer.

"Well, is she your girl?" I ask, trying to sound more interested than I am.

"I can't say she's not," Steve answers. There's some pink in his cheeks as he stares off at the TV, chewing mindlessly.

I was going insane holding it all in. I _had _to tell somebody. I nearly told Steve while we were eating lunch. I take myself for a walk. _Calm down, James, just calm down._ I start running, and then I find myself running through the park. I don't even see Sam while trying to catch my breath. He struts over to me, but I don't notice him until he starts talking to me.

"Bucky? You look awful."

I gaze over at him, pulling a hand through my hair.

"You alright?"

"No. I'm not."

"Thanks." The coffee is hot in my bionic hand as Sam pours me a cup. I push it away and lean on both elbows at his kitchen counter.

"I don't know when they'll be done renovating the community centre, but I'm still planning on having sessions. People have said they find them helpful," he explains, placing the pot on the counter.

"Steve hasn't mentioned you in ages, if it makes you feel any better…"

I stare at my hand.

"Are you working or anything?"

"…Yeah, I got this gig at a gym."

Sam nods when I finally look up at him.

"You know Davine, from group?" I ask. Sam crosses his arms.

"Yeah. Yeah, she didn't talk much, but I knew her name. That's really it. Why? Have you met her before?"

"She's my girlfriend now."

"Oh. _Oh_. You guys have a fight or something? Were you looking for advice? Man, you came to the right place—"

"I tried to kill her. In the past."

Sam's smile fades and he leans a little ways back, away from me. I sigh.

"But it wasn't _my _fault. It was when I was with HYDRA—I didn't have any control. I was supposed to abduct her, to get to her then girlfriend. She was an agent from some rival—some government agency that took out people like me. I killed her girlfriend, but I didn't _mean _to. The lady shot at _me_, the bullet bounced off, and it killed her."

"…That's deep. How do you know all that? I thought you were brainwashed—"

"I _was_. There are some things that just—I dunno—put the pieces of the puzzle together. I figured it out and I was terrified. You know that scar Davine has on her face?" Sam nods.

"_I did that_."

"Did you _tell_ her?" Sam looks at a loss for words, his brown eyes almost as wide as golf balls.

"No," I utter, tears welling up in my eyes.

"Hey, dude."

I take a deep breath and turn around, wiping my eyes. _Stop crying, James._

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, how do you know any of this is legit?" Sam asks.

"Because I _asked _her. I lied and told her that I used to work for the CIA, and she told me all about it…she never saw my face when I took her. I tased her, put a bag over her head and everything. What do I…what do I do, Sam? It's killing me, and I don't know what to do!"

He grabs my shoulders and squeezes tight for a moment.

"Well, you have to tell her. Clearly you can't go on like this. Look at you, man."

"_What?_ Are you insane?"

"You wanted my advice, so I gave it to you. You've gotta tell her, man. Look what it's doing to you."

"She'll…she'll _hate_ me. She'll break up with me."

"And you'll stop feeling like this."

I know Sam is talking sense. I walk away from him.

"Listen, Bucky. Eventually, you won't be able to hide this. It's already taking a toll on you—"

"Thanks, Sam."

Honestly, I don't know what the hell I'll do. When I make it back to Steve's Davine is waiting between the elevators for me, like she had before.

"Can we talk?" she asks gently. I take a deep breath as she makes her way towards me.

"Are you alright? You look a little…feverish."

"I was running. I'm fine."

She holds my hands. _God, I love it when she does that. It makes me feel good._

"Hang on. Let me go shower and I'll come over, okay?"

She nods and walks out the door to go back over to hers. When I make it over to Davine's building, she buzzes me in and I take the elevator up. When I make it to her door, it's already open.

"D?" I call inside, closing the door behind me. I find her sitting on the couch waiting for me. She gazes over at me hopefully. I sit down beside Davine, facing her.

"I'm sorry. You're right, I shouldn't push you to talk about things you don't want to talk about."

Sam's suggestion crosses my mind again.

"I just feel like sometimes I'm the only one who ever talks. We don't talk as much as we used to."

I push my hand through her hair, trying to think of what to say. _Oh, by the way, it's my fault Olivia died._

"I've been thinking about it and I…I think I know why you don't like to talk about your past. It's your wife, isn't it?"

Part of me wants to scream at the top of my lungs that this is all a lie! I was never married, I never lost my arm defending civilians in Iraq, I was a sergeant in the 40s. I'm a damn dirty _lie_.

"You never talk about her…Maybe you're just afraid to get closer to someone because you haven't been close to anybody like that since she died."

I smile weakly and twirl Davine's hair between my fingers.

"Do I remind you of her?"

And then my eyes begin to leak and I just pull Davine against me and start crying about everything. She crawls into my lap, her arms wrapped around my head.

"Oh, baby…it's okay…"

I hold onto her and just sit there sobbing.

"It's okay," she breathes. I want so badly to tell the truth, but I know she'll never want to see me again if I do. We end up lying there, like before, and I close my eyes and let her wipe my tears, kiss my cheeks. This is why I can't tell her the truth. I'm in too deep…

Friday arrives and Steve and I finally finish cleaning up the apartment by three in the afternoon. I pour what's left of the water I'd used for mopping down the toilet and flush it.

"Okay, wanna flip a coin to see who gets to shower first?" Steve asks. I laugh when he stands in the bathroom door. There's some dust attached to his t-shirt.

"I don't care," I mumble.

"Okay, you go. I just want to run out and grab some scented candles, or some incense or something. Leave the windows open at least until I get back," Steve explains. He disappears and I put the cleaning supplies away before taking my clothes off as I walk to my room. After my shower, I shave, gel my hair to the side. I want to look nice. I practice my smile a few times in the mirror before getting dressed. I throw on a nice polo and even iron my slacks before putting them on. While Steve's finishing his shower, there's a knock on the door. He rushes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and hurries to the door. I hear Natasha laugh and she walks in with shopping bags, saying she'll start cooking now so that we can finish getting ready. I put the ironing board away and let Steve know that I'm heading over to Davine's. When I knock on Davine's door, she's wearing a dress. This is the first time I've ever seen her in a dress. She grins at me and lets me in, and I can't stop staring. Her hair is half-straightened.

"Why are you here? I thought we were starting at six. I'm not ready yet," she explains, but she looks nonetheless happy to see me.

"Wow," is all I can manage. She laughs and tells me to sit down on the couch while she finishes getting ready. I wait there messing with my phone nervously for twenty minutes or so. I can't shake this feeling that something horrible is about to happen…_You have to tell her. Clearly you can't go on like this. Look at you, man…_ I groan out loud, rubbing my temples.

"Bucky?"

I look up, not having even heard Davine enter the room. She looks at me with concern.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, just a little headache," I lie, standing up. I grab her waist.

"You look amazing."

After I kiss her, she still looks concerned.

"Well, I've got some Tylenol in the cabinet—let me get you—"

I pull her back by the arm when she starts away.

"No, no, no. I'm fine. Let's just go eat. I think dinner is almost ready. Steve's girlfriend is cooking."

"Yeah, you told me."

"Let's go."

I grab Davine's hand and try to act normal while I lead her over to Steve's. She keeps massaging my shoulders in the elevator, and I know she can tell that something's on my mind. I knock on Steve's door and he answers it.

"Hey. Welcome back," he says, giving Davine a friendly hug.

"Steve," she says.

"So, what are we having? It smells good."

I let her walk in first.

"I actually have no idea. Nat's in the kitchen. She'll be out in a second," Steve explains, closing the door. I lead Davine into the dining room and pull out a seat for her, pushing it back in like a gentleman after she sits down.

"Can I offer you anything to drink? I ran by the liquor store a few hours ago," Steve says, picking up one of three different bottles on the table.

"That one will be nice, thank you." Davine points to the red wine and Steve pops the cork and starts pouring into the glass that is set at Davine's spot. I sit down.

"Bucky?"

"No thanks."

"He's got a little headache," says Davine, and though she's talking to Steve, she's looking at me.

"We barely ate today. Spent most of it cleaning up," Steve admits.

"Let me get you some water, Bucky."

He disappears to the kitchen and Davine places her hand atop mine.

"Bucky?"

I smile at her. She tilts her head to the side, and there's pleading in her eyes, like she's begging me to say something.

"I'm _fine_. I promise," I lie, cupping the back of her neck and kissing her forehead a long moment.

"Oh, James, here's your water," comes Natasha's voice. Time seems to move in slow motion as Natasha walks into the room and Davine begins to turn her head in the direction of Natasha's voice.

"Who's this girlfriend of yours? I'm dying to meet her." Natasha grins, and when Davine has stood up, the smile leaves her face and she drops the glass. Davine's eyes widen and then I know something is about to happen. Steve hurries into the room to find water and ice cubes on the floor.

"Natasha, what—"

"I thought I _killed you_," Davine breathes.

"No, _I _thought I killed _you_," Natasha returns. The next thing I know, the women are glaring at each other. A silence passes.

"Bucky, how do you know the Black Widow?" Davine asks without taking her eyes off Natasha. Steve shakes his head.

"What are you talking about?" he asks, a bit unconvincingly.

"James, how do you know this bitch?" Natasha spits. Davine snatches a knife up off the table and I nearly topple my chair when transitioning myself between Davine and Natasha. Steve follows suit.

"Wait—what the hell is going on?" I ask.

"You two know each other?" Steve asks.

"Sweety…put the knife down," I beg, gripping Davine's hand. She tears it back and tries to start around me. Natasha is shoving Steve out of the way, telling him to move.

"What's going on?" he asks loudly, trying to get a hold of Natasha.

"You little bitch," Natasha mumbles.

"Bucky, _move_," Davine seethes.

"_No._ What the hell are you doing?" I ask Davine again. She slams a fist against my chest and I move only enough that she can make eye contact with Natasha, who's still pushing past Steve. Steve bodily removes Natasha from the room, throwing her over his shoulder, and then I find myself dying to know why this is happening.

"You thought you could get to me through the Winter Soldier, did you?" Natasha barks.

"You knew you'd find me through him—through Steve," she shouts, and finally Steve has managed to pull Natasha out of the room. I can hear him telling Natasha to calm down, asking her what her problem is. Meanwhile, Davine has dropped the knife she was holding and is staring up at me with wide eyes.

"What's the matter? …You look like you've seen a ghost." I grin. When I try to clasp Davine's waist, she backs up around the table away from me.

"Hey…what's…what's wrong?" I ask, cautiously making my way towards Davine. I wasn't going to let her leave the room and continue the cat fight with Natasha.

"What did she just call you?" Davine asks, barely above a whisper.

"…"

"You…it was _you_? _You killed Olivia?_"

"Wait—Davine—"

She rushes through the door and I follow her where she starts out into the hall.

"Davine, wait—"

And when I grab her arm, she turns around to punch me right in the face. I sputter a moment, caught off guard. Davine even grimaces and shakes her hand painfully for a second. She has a mean right hook. Steve steps out into the hall.

"Can somebody tell me what the _hell's_ going on?" he asks rather loudly. He's holding the front door closed and I can hear Natasha banging on it from the inside, demanding that he open it. Davine glares past me to the door.

"Keep that bitch away from me," she snarls.

"Davine, _talk to me_," I beg. I can feel the blood dripping from my nose over my lips.

"Tell me the truth _right now_, Bucky," she breathes, backing up. I take another step and she puts her hand up warningly. I stop.

"Did you or did you _not _kill Olivia?"

"…It was an accident—I didn't mean to," I blurt.

"Who's she talking about?" Steve asks, "…Bucky, what's she talking about?"

Davine's tears shatter my heart. She screams at me when I try to get closer. She struggles when I grab her wrists.

"Wait, Bucky, let her go."

"I didn't _mean_ to—I wasn't in control. I couldn't—"

"I don't _ever_ want to see you again," Davine barks. I let her wrists go and freeze as she yells at me.

"How can you live with yourself, you son of a bitch? You did this to my face," she says, pointing to the scar.

"Davine please—"

"We're done! Don't ever touch me again. If you ever touch me again, I'll _kill _you."

And she runs down the hall until she makes it to the stairs. Steve stands in my way when I try to go after her.

"Bucky, just let her go…your nose," he says, tilting my chin up.

I'm crying too hard to see straight. Natasha finally pulls the door open and rushes out. When she sees that Davine is gone, she starts to calm down. Steve blocks her path nonetheless. He demands an explanation.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asks him softly. I know she's looking at me.

"Tell me how you knew Davine and what happened between you two. You just said something that made that woman threaten Bucky's life." They start talking and soon enough, it is revealed that Davine and Natasha had "met" on several occasions, on opposing missions of some sort. They'd physically fought each other more than once. There's a history there that even I didn't know about. It looks like Davine wasn't telling me _everything _there was to know.

"I should go. His nose is bleeding," Natasha mutters, not really meaning for me to hear everything. I'm too upset to move, so I just sit there, staring at the wall.

"_No way_. You're not leaving my sight until I say so. I've never seen you so angry. Go inside and wait for me." Natasha sighs and disappears back into the apartment, where the stove is beeping for whatever she'd been cooking.

"Bucky—"

"It was an _accident_! I killed her partner. They were…there was this mission. I didn't know. I forgot. One day, I saw a photo in Davine's apartment and I had a flashback." I don't even recognize my own voice when I speak.

"I didn't _kill _Olivia. I _really didn't_, Steve. It was an accident. She shot at me, and the bullet bounced off my arm…and it hit her. I was just supposed to bring her to HYDRA, so I used Davine as bait. It's not my fault. It's not my _fault_!"

Steve pulls me into a standing position and hugs me tight. I don't know what I'm gonna do now.


	7. Chapter 7

I deserved every punch in the face, every cuss, every glare. I walk into work with my hoodie on. I've thought about quitting since Davine broke up with me two weeks ago. When I get home, Steve is waiting for me with a beer. I open it and only take a few sips before putting it down. After telling him everything there was to tell about what happened with Davine, I told him not to mention her again. But it doesn't help me—I'm not over her. I just need to talk to her. I shower passively. There's a bruise on the bridge of my nose that's finally fading from where she punched me. It's a reminder of what I did to her, and I know that the pain is slight in comparison to what _I _did. Steve knocks on the door. I let him keep knocking before wrapping a towel around my waist and walking past him to my room. Davine won't answer my calls. She's been sleeping on her couch, crying herself to sleep again. I can't stop watching her, and I can't stay away. If she'd just give me a chance to _explain_ myself, maybe she would find a way to be at peace, if not let me be in her life. As I watch her sit there watching the evening news from my spot on the roof, she's inspiration to me.

I've rewritten this note at least fifteen times, over and over again. I can't get the words quite right. This one is now five pages long. I'm trying to tell her _everything_, about how I was brainwashed, how I wasn't in control, and despite that, how she had every right to hate me. I tear the pages off the notepad and fold them neatly. I know there's no way I'll get within a foot of Davine without enduring another physical and/or verbal attack. I can't imagine what she's going through, but it's bad for me because I haven't been sleeping at all. I'm starting to look like a zombie because of it. I decide to wait until Davine goes to work in the morning. I'll wait for somebody to come out of the building and take the elevator up to her place, and I'll just slip the letter under her door. I wonder whether she'll actually read it. I really hope she will. I'll have no way of knowing unless she decides to start talking to me again.

I ponder staying there at her door and waiting until she gets home. _No, that's a stupid ass idea, James. She'll probably call the cops on you_. And for once, I really listen to my subconscious and leave after sitting in front of her door for hours. I walk past the salon where Davine works and decide to go in. It's a little after five and I don't really know if she'll even be there. And if she is, she'll have to talk to me, or at least look at me. I don't really know. The receptionist with the big hair doesn't smile at me too big as I approach her. I'm already looking past her to see who's left cutting and coloring at this time of day.

"She's moving out of state. She told me to tell you in case you came by. Turned in her resignation a few days ago."

"Huh?"

The receptionist called Salina—that's what her nametag says—stands up, leaning in towards me slowly, lowering her voice.

"You were Davine's boyfriend, right? I'm guessing she didn't tell you she's moving."

I stand there dumbfounded. _Were_. It stings like a bastard.

"I'm sorry. And she's not here, anyway. We're about to close, so…"

I sigh and turn on my heel, walking outside where it's practically night already. This couldn't possibly be happening. I saw her last night. I wonder then if she's even still there. Did she get my note? On my way back to Steve's, I can't stomach the unknown anymore. I make my way to Davine's. When I pause to listen outside her door, I can hear the television. Did she lie about moving? Did she hate me so much that she decided to quit her job and go into hiding? With hesitation at first, I knock.

"…Just a second."

I hear shuffling around before the door swings open and Davine brandishes a knife in my face. I put my hands up as if to surrender. She already knew it was me at the door. She was prepared. I didn't come here thinking it wasn't possible that she'd react like this.

"I've said all I need to say to you," she says angrily.

"Davine—"

"Don't you ever say my name again," she says, narrowing her eyes.

"Did you get my note?"

She glances at the little table just inside the door, beside the coat rack. She didn't even open it, but I'm relieved to see that it's not torn to shreds. I take the opportunity to grab her wrist, while she's distracted, and angle the knife away from me, but she manages to slash my hand with it and I hiss at the sting for a moment as she takes a giant step back. I let myself in.

"Do it, then." I remain calm and collected as I make my way towards her. Instead of trying to take a stab at me, she starts crying. My hand bleeds warmly and it begins to drip on Davine's floor.

"Is everything you told me a fucking lie? What kind of demon are you?" she asks. She keeps the knife at the ready, even as I take my steps towards her and she takes her steps back.

"I know. I know, I lied. But not about _everything_—"

"Shut the _fuck _up," she growls.

"You never let me _explain_—"

"There _is _nothing to explain! Olivia is dead because of you. Now get the hell out before I—"

"Then _do it_."

Her eyes widen.

"Do it, if it'll make you feel better, but trust me, you and I both know how it changes you to kill…_I didn't have a choice_."

"Why did you have to make me believe that you actually _cared_ about me?" she asks, her face twisted in an agony that I can't stand to look at. The tears are warm on my face.

"The least you fucking owe me is an explanation for _that_," she says.

"That was _never_ a lie, Davine," I admit, "Don't tell me you believe that the way I feel is a lie." She stares at me for a moment before kicking me in the chest and straddling me. She screams at me to stop talking, and I just close my eyes as she presses the knife to my throat. At the same time, she won't stop crying, and then she starts telling me she hates me, and all this hurts more than any knife ever could have. After a while, I realize she can't bring herself to put me out of my misery. The knife clatters to the floor somewhere beside my head and I finally open my eyes. She cups my face, spewing her hatred in emphasis.

"I don't need you to haunt me, too. I don't want any more ghosts," she says.

"I wish I'd never met you," she breathes, the anger still present. I don't care what she's saying anymore. I lift up my head and pull hers towards me, and she gasps, grasping my wrists with uncertainty. I kiss her, like it's the last time I'll ever do it. She doesn't even pull back, despite clawing into my flesh wrist with clear intent to try and draw blood. Davine whimpers into my lips and I sit up slowly, until I can wrap my arms around her. She pushes against my chest halfheartedly. I move to her neck and she starts cussing me out again, telling me to get the fuck out. I'm not really listening anymore. Her skin sizzles against my lips and she gasps erotically when I suck at her throat.

"This wasn't a lie," I whisper. She slaps me hard and I just ignore it and continue afterwards. She stops squeezing so hard on my chest and trying to push me away. Instead, she's sighing in what sounds to me like pleasure as I continue on her neck and chin, nipping gently. She keeps telling me she hates me, but it doesn't stop her moaning and sighing. She says she hates me, but her body tells me otherwise. Soon enough, I pick her up and make my way to the bedroom. I didn't plan on it going this way, I just wanted to kiss her one more time, but when I did it, I couldn't stop…She feels hot and wet inside and her nails clawing into my back cause me no pain as I pull her hips closer. Davine throws her head back and gasps. I don't remember the last time I had sex. It must have been at least seventy years ago. _Oh god. _I close my eyes tight and give a thrust upwards from where I'm sitting on the bed between Davine's legs. She moans out loud so I keep going. She allows her forehead to fall against mine and I can see the anger ever present in her eyes as a myriad of choppy swears emanate from her mouth.

She licks her lips and grinds into me, meeting my thrusts, beckoning me deeper. _Oh shit…don't come yet—you just started…_I grip Davine by the arms and push her onto her back, breathing, sighing.

"Just let me tell you what really happened," I whisper before kissing between her eyes, her chin as it juts skywards and she angles her hips up at me with anticipation. She pulls at my lower back in desperation, tacitly begging me to come back. She even guides me back in and wraps her arms around my body. It felt good to be held. I needed every second of it. I roll my hips forward and catch a glimpse of our naked bodies entangled in the mirror on the dresser. She's moaning more than I am, shaking like a leaf beneath me. She bites into my shoulder for a few seconds as I slow down a moment, wanting to drag this out for as long as I possibly can; I'm afraid she'll still be pissed at me when we're done. She cups my face and a bead of sweat drips down my temple and lands on her chest.

"I love you—that was never a lie," I admit, and this feeling grips me, this deep tingling sensation that causes me to pause. She squeezes me so tight that I can't pull out, and I know I'm done. She sings beneath me and what a sight it is to behold. Davine's cheeks glow, and every inch of her skin responds to my touch. She curses at me again, holding onto me the tightest yet. She'd gotten much wetter and I knew my mission was complete.

"Don't you believe me?" I breathe. Slowly, the tears escape her eyes again and she finally looks up at me. She growls and pounds upon my chest like she hates me.

"Get the _fuck_ off me," she cries. I know she doesn't mean this. I pin her arms down before she can hit me in the face again.

"_Look at me_," I beg. It's written all over my face. I know that she can see it, see how sorry I am.

"It wasn't me. It was _him_…I'm not that ghost anymore."

"Shut up."

"It's _me_, Davine. You _know me_."

"No, I don't."

"Yes. Yes you do. Just look at me."

After a moment of crying with her eyes closed, she looks up at me and stops. I push the hair off her forehead and kiss it. She just stares at me in silence, probably coming to terms with the gravity of what we've just done. She wouldn't have let me if she hated me so much. Something tells me she no longer has space left for hate inside her.

"Start talking," she says.


	8. Chapter 8

Davine's head rests in the palm of my metal hand. We haven't moved from this position for an hour now. I feel a huge sense of relief. I've told her everything there is to tell in answer to all her questions.

"Do you still hate me?" I ask, pressing her palm against my cheek.

"I don't think I can. Before I knew what you did, I didn't hate you. Now…I just feel sorry for you." I don't frown or smile. Davine cups the back of my hand.

"I'm sorry about your hand," she says, kissing the slash lightly. I smile without teeth.

"I was thinking you'd just punch me again. But don't worry. I deserved it."

"…No, you didn't. You were tortured into submission for _decades_. You shouldn't say things like that."

"Really? …Do I _deserve _to have you love me, even after I took that away from you when you already had it?" Davine lifts her head to kiss my chin.

"I don't know that Olivia would have wanted me to hurt you, after telling that story, about what they did to you."

"…I really didn't shoot her, Davine. And I'm not saying that just to get you to forgive me."

"I believe you…my leg is falling asleep," she yawns, stirring beneath me. I lift my weight off her enough that she can slide from under me.

"I'm sorry."

She lies on her side, closes her eyes.

"So, what exactly happened between you and Natasha Romanoff to make you two hate each other like cats and dogs?" I ask. I ask gently, because I'm almost afraid to. I can still picture Davine jumping out of her seat and grabbing that knife off the table.

"Ugh," she sighs, her eyes pinching shut tighter. I lie down beside her and grasp her hip.

"I'm too tired to explain that one," she mumbles. I rub her side. It's hot to the touch. I trace my hand up, watching Davine shiver, her lips parting slightly. And then I make it to her face and trace my finger down the scar on her cheek.

"This is still my fault," I whisper. Maybe I'll end up with a scar where she slashed my hand. It would only be fair.

"I still did this to you."

She opens her eyes and looks over at me.

"I've thought about having surgery to get rid of it. But it helped to remind me of Olivia and why I replaced her when they offered."

"Yes…it was a reminder to find me and kill me."

"James," she sighs, pulling my hand away.

"You should hate me—and you have every right to."

"James. Shh."

I watch Davine lying there. I continue to trace my hand down her side, lean my head close enough to kiss a breast, her throat, her jaw, every other minute, until I'm certain she's fast asleep. Her beef with Natasha is a story for another day. I hear something buzzing on the floor. I already know it's Steve calling me. I move carefully, as not to wake Davine before grabbing my pants up off the floor and rushing out of the room. I answer the phone.

"What?"

"Bucky, where are you? It's almost nine."

"Sorry, dad. Forgot about curfew."

Steve laughs reluctantly on the other line.

"He's probably with her." I can just barely make out Natasha's voice on the other line. I roll my eyes.

"I'm at Davine's."

Steve pauses before answering, "Didn't she break up with you?"

"It's a long story, Steve. I think I'm going to spend the night, okay? Just—don't worry."

And then I hang up. I walk back to Davine's room to find that she's still asleep. I pull one of the sheets up and wrap it around her before resuming my spot. I stare at her until I fall asleep…

"Were you seriously moving away, because of me?" I ask over the cup of coffee the waitress put in front of me. I had convinced Davine to let me take her out for breakfast. In my day, dates didn't usually _start_ with sex. She sighs and her eyes hurry away from my anticipating gaze.

"I thought about it," she says, "And no. Not just because of you."

"Is that the truth?" I ask genuinely.

"After we broke up, I just kept thinking about what you said. And you were right. I could be changing more lives somewhere else. I just needed a break from what I was doing. I've been applying for different jobs, and there's one in New York that I have a strong feeling I'm gonna get," she explains. So she _was _planning to move.

"Anyway, I'll be closer to my dad, and he's getting kind of old. I don't want to put him in a home, really." And then she stares at me. I'm old enough to be her _grandfather_.

"So, when are you leaving?"

"I don't know."

She takes a sip of tea.

"Davine, I'm sorry."

"You've already said it so much. I _know_ you're sorry, Bucky," she says sympathetically.

"But you're still gonna leave me."

She sighs, "James, I don't know."

"Well, you just said you want to go and take care of your dad. I would, too, if I had one."

She looks at me remorsefully. And then her eyes begin to well up. She snatches a napkin off the center of the table and holds it to her eyes a moment.

"Hey…hey, I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I know," she mumbles.

"So…why are you crying, D?"

It's a moment before she removes the napkin from her eyes and leans in towards me across the table.

"Because I feel confused and conflicted. I can't believe that I'm still in love with you after what you did to me—and I'm not talking about Olivia—I'm talking about all the lies. After I told you the truth about who I am, what I used to do, you didn't have to keep up the ruse. But you _did_."

"Not _everything_ I told you was a lie—"

"It doesn't matter. I _let_ you manipulate me…even when I wasn't sure. Because I needed somebody to be close to, to take my pain away, and if not that, at least to take my mind off of all the things I've done in the past." She's shaking her head, staring into space.

"…I'm sor—"

"Stop saying it," she whispers shortly.

I shut my mouth and Davine places an elbow on the table, cups her chin, and doesn't look at me. I can feel Davine's resentment washing over me in waves. The waitress finally brings our plates and Davine thanks her with a smile. The smile fades as soon as the waitress walks away. We eat in silence for a while.

"Can we go somewhere else to talk?" I ask quietly. She'd seemed on the brink of yelling at me a few minutes ago. Davine shrugs, finally casting me a glance. I pay and we walk around the corner back to Davine's apartment. I'd wrapped my arm around her waist, and she let it stay there for a number of steps before pulling away from me and crossing her arms. I don't try to touch her again until she lets me into her apartment.

"What did I do—?"

"Please don't," she breathes, taking a step back and causing my hand to fall from her waist. She disappears into the kitchen and I follow after standing there in confusion for a while. I find Davine throwing back a glass, the wine bottle that sits on her counter still open. I make my way towards her slowly, until I'm close enough that my chest touches the back of her head ever so slightly. She leans closer to the counter and pours another glass. I grab it and pull it away before she can throw it back.

"D, stop it," I whisper. She reaches into the cabinet and grabs another glass, starts to pour. When I try to take this one away from her, she turns around and pushes me with about all the strength she can muster. I fall back, but only because I'd let the blow push me.

"What's the matter with you?"

She pushes me again, and by the fourth shove, she can't take her hands off my chest. Instead, she stares up at me with that look in her eyes. I pull her towards me and press my lips against hers. She pulls away, opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but can't find the words. So I kiss her again and she pulls her head back.

"This is too much," she finally says.

"I…I need you to leave," she whispers, closing her eyes. Deep down I know she's afraid that we'll have sex again and she'll forgive me.

"I told you. I never lied about how I feel."

She distances herself from me and backs up into the corner. I can't stay away; the urge to feel her lips is greater than Davine's will to push me back.

"Davine," I whisper. She stares at me with wide eyes.

"It wasn't _me_. I didn't do all those things…I would _never _hurt you."

I know she knows this, but she puts herself in denial.

"Can you please just _leave_, James?" she breathes.

"_No_. I want to be with you. If you're going to send me away, then send me away for good. I'm not going to play games." I just had to make myself clear.

"I should…but I can't," she says quietly.

"Then let me at least try to make up for lying to you," I beg. I would do this by loving her more than I'd ever loved any woman.

"I don't think you can. Even if it wasn't your fault."

"Ask me whatever you want, and I'll tell you the truth."

"You _can't_. There's too much that you just can't remember. James, I think you should go, before we…"

"Before we what, show each other how much we feel?"

"I'm a monster, too, you know," she says.

"And the things I did, I did because I _wanted_ to—because I got paid to do it, not because somebody was brainwashing me." By now, I've closed the gap between us. I press my hand against the wall, beside Davine's head.

"Then tell me. Tell me everything that haunts you," I whisper. Davine closes her eyes and allows me to stroke her cheek. She leans into my touch, and our lips lock. She couldn't have resisted for long. Her hands roam up the back of my shirt. In about a minute, she's straddling me on the kitchen floor, grinding against me rhythmically. And the sounds coming from between her lips are music to my ears. She hadn't moaned quite like this before. Her nails dig harder into my chest when she's close. And when she orgasms, her knees go weak at my sides and she pants almost uncontrollably. I sit up and hold onto her really tight, knocking my hips up between her thighs a rough dozen times again, reveling in the way she trembles in my grip.

"Okay, okay, okay," she breathes, "I'll stay. I'll stay here. I won't go."

She rests her head on my shoulder and sighs repeatedly, her breaths causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I knew we wouldn't be able to stop.


End file.
